


A Song From Far Away

by mushroomtale, Polomonkey



Series: A Song From Far Away [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Humor, Dragons, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Magic, Pining, Romance, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2016-10-03
Packaged: 2018-08-19 05:18:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 71,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8191642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mushroomtale/pseuds/mushroomtale, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polomonkey/pseuds/Polomonkey
Summary: When Arthur is captured by an enemy king intent on conquering Camelot, his future looks bleak. For Cenred commands not only a clutch of sorcerers but a fearsome dragon trained to do battle and wreak destruction.Then Arthur meets Merlin, a fellow captive whose magic has been bound to Cenred's will. But can Merlin resist Cenred's control long enough to help Arthur save Camelot?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【授权翻译】A Song From Far Away/渺远之歌](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11781873) by [MarauderIvy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarauderIvy/pseuds/MarauderIvy)



> Firstly thank you to the wonderful ACBB mods for hosting this incredible fest and being amazingly patient with our late entry! I'd also like to thank the many other fandom folks who provided encouragement and support, and I am indebted to versaphile for their excellent [map and fannish resource](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1037453/chapters/2069264) which I have made use of in this fic.
> 
> Next, my full and never ending gratitude to the wonderful Footloose for beta-ing! You did such an amazing job on this fic and gave me so much valuable writing advice, as well as correcting my many wayward semi-colons... I cannot thank you enough for your help and support (and any remaining mistakes are most assuredly my own.)
> 
> Finally, Lyns, what can I say? If last year's ACBB was like our excitable debut, this year's was like our difficult second album. We were on the struggle bus for most of this process and yet there is no one else I would rather flail with! Just like last year, you were a truly indispensable co-pilot. You brainstormed the plot with me, you suggested pretty much every good thing in this fic, you provided concrit, and on top of all that you produced such stunning artwork. I cannot stop looking at it, every piece is a revelation and I can't believe my luck in working with you again! I'd pretty much follow you anywhere so thank you for letting me latch onto your talent, and roll on the next collab! <333
> 
>    
> Note: the tags contain the main fic warnings but I have added individual chapter warnings where appropriate.

  
 

 

 

**Prologue**

It happened while Arthur was laughing.

He was normally more alert when he was out riding, but it was such a lovely autumn day and the late October sun was dappling through the trees overhead, tinting the ground gold before him. His best knights rode beside him and Morgause brought up the rear, the unseasonably warm weather tempering even her usual solemnity. Gwaine cracked some kind of joke, Elyan rolled his eyes, and Elena was half slipping off her horse from sniggering so hard.

Arthur turned to Leon, his heart suddenly full of contentment.

“Let’s stay out another hour,” he said.

“I have no objections sire, if you can bear Gwaine’s prattling that long.” 

Leon’s mouth was curved up at the sides; he looked as relaxed as Arthur felt. And why wouldn’t he be? It was a beautiful day, Camelot was at peace, and for once they had nothing more to worry about than Uther’s chide for returning home late.

“The day is young Leon, we may yet see Morgause magic Gwaine’s mouth shut again,” he remarked dryly and his friend grinned wide.

Leon was still smiling when his horse was suddenly flung up in the air, swiped off its hooves by some unseen force. He hit his head hard on a low hanging branch, fell to the ground, and lay still.

Arthur was shouting out in alarm before he’d even drawn his sword.

“Get back, sire!” Morgause cried, magical energy already crackling from her hands like lightning. But Arthur wasn’t listening. He spurred his horse forward, breaking out from the cover of the trees to find out who or what had dared to attack his friend…

His rage died in his throat and for a moment he couldn’t breathe.

A huge beast hovered in the air before him, monstrously dark against the clear blue sky. It had four great haunches, a long slender neck, and a thick black tail beset with tiny ridges. Arthur’s tongue formed its name even as his mind denied the truth as impossible.

Dragon.

But there were no dragons. Not anymore, not since the cull. They had been hunted to extinction, killed by power hungry men who would make spells with their blood and charms with their hides. There hadn’t been a dragon in Albion for nearly twenty years.

And yet it was a dragon that he saw before him.

The dragon opened its mouth to roar and Arthur’s horse reared in fright. The movement brought him out of his own shock, and stirred his rage again. He glanced to see Leon still lying rigid on the grass, no sign of life about him, and grief settled like steel in his blood. This beast had killed his friend. He would not let Leon go unavenged.

His horse was cantering backwards so he leapt from the saddle, sword held aloft, and rushed at the dragon. He could hear shouts from behind but he ignored them. Fury gave him momentum and he managed to evade Gwaine’s grasp as he pelted into the open, a great bellow coming from his chest.

The dragon turned at the noise, its long neck dipping downwards. Its shadow fell across Arthur, body big enough to block the sun from view. This close he could see the yellow of its eyes, the cold gleam of its inhuman gaze.

Arthur raised his sword, trying to assess its weakest point.

_The eyes. But too far away… the underbelly? The jaw?_

Its belly was closest to his reach. It flew towards him and he ran to meet it, ready to plunge upwards and hope he could find an undefended spot. Just as the dragon bore down on him, a silver pulse cracked through the air and the dragon lit up like a beacon.

“Get behind me, sire,” Morgause snarled, her lips white with the effort of maintaining the spell. The silver was surrounding the dragon like a net and it twisted in mid-air, trying to shake free. Arthur trusted Morgause’s magic though, he’d never seen her fail yet.

“Let me finish it,” he shouted, but it came out almost like a plea. He couldn’t bear not to be a part of this, Leon was his First Knight, it was only right that Arthur bring down the thing that killed him...

“Leave it, Arthur,” Elena shouted as she ran up from the trees. “We have to get you to safety-“

“No, let me just-”

“I can’t hold it,” Morgause said, and there was a tone of fear in her voice that Arthur had never heard before.

Elyan and Gwaine were pulling at him but Arthur resisted, couldn’t they see Morgause needed help? If he could just get close enough to stick the beast once and for all…

“Let me be!” he shouted, turning round to his knights. Daring them to disobey a direct order from their prince.

But their eyes went wide and Arthur took too long to realise why, and by then he could already feel hot breath at his back.

He sidestepped just in time as the dragon lunged forward. It drove into Elyan and Gwaine instead, knocking them to the ground. Dead leaves were swirling in the air, blown forth by the beating of its wings.

Arthur turned to see Morgause panting as she raised her hand for a second try at the spell but he knew it was no good. The dragon’s hide was too thick, her magic could not penetrate it like it usually would.

_We were not prepared for this._

The dragon came at him again, snapping wide with that terrifying maw. Arthur slashed at it with his sword, but it was too quick, he couldn’t even graze it. Elena ran forward as it made a third attempt, and caught it with a quick gash to its forearm. A fine jet of blood sprayed out, soaking her mail. It was so dark red it looked almost black.

The dragon reared back for a second. Then it dipped down and pivoted. It was too late by the time Arthur saw what was about to happen. The dragon’s tail slashed across the ground, whipping their feet from under them as it did to Leon’s horse before.

Arthur landed with a thud and the world went white for a few seconds. When his vision cleared, he saw Elena lying a few feet away, her eyes closed and her body limp. Frantic, he crawled to her, and was overcome to see the tell-tale sign of her chest rising and falling.

The relief was short-lived. He went unguarded for too long and when he felt the dragon’s breath at his back again he threw himself over Elena’s body, hoping that at least his death might shield her life. When the dragon’s jaws closed around him, he could only think of his father and Morgana, and send the last of his love to them.

But the dragon’s mouth did not snap closed to devour him. Instead it encased him only enough to take firm grip on his body and then… and then…

He was lifted in the air. Raised upwards, the ground rapidly falling away. The jaws around him opened and he cried out in alarm, afraid the dragon had brought him up high to drop him down. But then he was caught before he fell, two huge claws circling around his torso, gripping him tight. As the dragon flew higher he could see Gwaine and Elyan stumbling to their feet below, Morgause running forward with her hand outstretched.

Her spells bounced harmlessly off the dragon, as if repelled. There was nothing she could do. Nothing anyone could do.

_We were not prepared for this._

Arthur watched the ground get further and further away. The air was getting thinner and he was struggling to breathe. The last thing he saw before he passed out was a glimpse of Camelot red between the trees, a final reminder of his fallen friend.

Arthur’s eyes slipped closed. The dragon flew on.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: restraints, brief torture

Arthur woke with a jolt.

There was a faint ringing in his ears and it took him several seconds to realise methat it wasn’t just inside his own head. The clang of metal sounded in the distance, like heavy iron doors being pushed into place. His head was throbbing and the noise only made it worse.

Was he in the vaults of Camelot? Had he visited for an inspection? Had someone come upon him there and knocked him down?

Because he was down, he realised, lying flat on a floor of what felt like cold stone. His whole body ached in an odd, unfamiliar way; there were bands of pressure around his collarbone and his stomach.

He shifted a little onto his side and heard another clank of metal, much closer to his ears.

His hands were chained.

He sat up immediately then, ignoring the wave of nausea that threatened as he hauled himself upright.

He couldn’t get far. The chains on his hands permitted him some movement but not enough to let him stand. They were screwed tight to the wall behind him.

Arthur was breathing fast, but already his training was taking over. Capture was always possible. He had been captured before. He would be captured again. There was no time for panic.

And panic was not what he felt. He was Arthur Pendragon and no cell would hold him for long. This was a frustration. An inconvenience and nothing more. Keeping that in mind, he shook his head to clear the last of the fog and turned to take in his surroundings.

It was a dungeon and he could be reasonably sure it was not one of Camelot’s. The stone was darker and the bars on the door were closer together; the metal rusted and stained. There were no windows and the dim light came from sconces on the corridor walls. He couldn’t move far enough to see beyond his cell.

He tested the chains a few more times, seeing if there was any give in the stone they were attached to; or if he could manipulate his wrists to slip free. But the shackles were strong and tight enough that even breaking his hands would not help. That was one escape route gone.

Escape route from where? Where was he and how had he got here? Arthur thought hard past the pain in his head, trying to remember.

Images began to float in his mind, blurry and disconnected. They didn’t seem to make any sense even as they came into focus. He remembered riding out in the woods. Someone had attacked them… or a group of people? Morgause was shouting, he could hear it in his head. And there was another sound he couldn’t identify, like a flapping noise, a hundred birds taking flight at once.

Silver light. Someone screaming. Leon falling.

A dragon.

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut. He remembered everything. A dragon had come for them. Morgause could not hold it back. It had picked Arthur up and taken him away.

And Leon was dead.

Hot tears pricked the back of Arthur’s eyes, sorrow warring with disbelief. How could this have happened? There were no dragons left. And yet he had seen it with his own eyes.  It had been unstoppable. It had slain his best friend.

There was no time to grieve. Arthur knew that. When he had returned to Camelot, when his captors were executed and the dragon slaughtered (and by the gods, Arthur wanted the pleasure of doing both himself), then he would mourn. At length, and in the proper way for one of the best men he had ever known; the most valiant and brave knight a prince could ask for. The most loyal and kind friend a man could have. He would see that the kingdom honoured Leon’s sacrifice and that his name was never forgotten. But now was not that time. He had to focus all his energy on escaping first.

He knew all this and yet he cried anyway. Head bowed and fists clenched tight, as muffled as he could manage so that his captors would not hear him. Arthur wept for the loss of a good man and for how much poorer the world seemed without him. And he swore that his friend would not go unavenged.

By the time he heard the footsteps approaching his cell; Arthur was ready. He bound up his grief in anger, and his sorrow in contempt. Whoever his captor was, they would pay for what they’d done to Leon. He’d make sure of that if it was the last thing he ever did.

He sat up straight as the cell door opened. His mind was clear and his flesh was steel.

The man who entered the cell was perhaps ten years older than Arthur. He had long dark hair and his build was wiry, the cords of his muscles obvious under the tight clothing he wore. He was dressed in a finely made navy tunic, matched with a pair of close fitting black breeches and high leather boots. His eyes were dark, lit up with an approximation of mirth, and there was a cold aspect to his face that undermined the fineness of his features.

Even if he wasn’t Arthur’s captor, Arthur suspected he would hate this man on sight.

He paused in the cell door, surveying. Arthur glared back, lips pressed tight together. To speak first was a disadvantage and Arthur wouldn’t fall into that trap. 

“Well, well, well. The princeling. At last we meet.”

The man’s voice was smooth and mocking, and anger flared in Arthur’s chest.

“The pleasure is all yours, I assure you,” he bit out.

“Oh, it is. I have heard much about you.”

“Whereas I have never heard of you,” Arthur said. This man was nothing to him. He wasn’t the first to threaten the crown prince and he wouldn’t be the last. Arthur would forget his name the minute he drove his sword through the man’s heart.

He tried to convey as much of his contempt as possible in his gaze but the man simply smiled.

“Don’t be so sure, princeling. Unless Cenred of Essetir strikes no chord with you.”

_Cenred?_

“Cenred of Essetir is dead,” Arthur said bluntly. “He was executed six years ago after a failed coup against his-”

“-father, yes. I’ve heard the story too,” the man said. “Wicked ungrateful Cenred tried to depose his dear devoted father and was rightfully defeated. He was summarily put to death and the good citizens of Essetir lived happily ever after.”

He paused.

“Unless… unless the _wicked_ Cenred had allies in Essetir that no one suspected. Allies with magic. Magic strong enough to spirit him out of the citadel and leave a man bearing his face behind in the dungeons. A face that had already been so mangled by the fury of the castle guards that it was barely recognisable to begin with.”

“I don’t believe you,” Arthur said instantly. There’d always been the odd travelling merchant swearing blind they’d seen the dead prince in the wilds of Northumbria – usually before trying to sell one of his relics. The rumour was widespread enough to be the subject of a popular folk ballad, with the minstrel warning children at the end to bolt their doors against the evil undead prince. There’d even been a young man making the rounds in Camelot once who swore blind that Cenred was still alive and the king of his own secret castle in the forests of Essetir.

What else had that boy said? Gwaine had reported the tale back to Arthur with great mirth.

“Lives in some hidden castle apparently, ol’ Cenred does, and calls himself the future King of Albion. And not only does he have sorcerers and an army alike but get this Princess – he’s got a ruddy great dragon too!”

_A dragon._

Arthur’s blood ran cold. Could it be true? Could the man in front of him really be the executed prince?

The man seemed to sense the shift in Arthur.

“Certain things slotting into place, princeling? All that talk you dismissed as foolish fishwife nonsense? You should pay more attention to your people; they seem to have the lay of the land better than you do.”

“If you are Cenred,” Arthur said, trying to keep his voice steady, “where have you been for six years? Languishing in the shadows like a coward?”

The man looked unruffled by the insult.

“Shadows are where great rulers are made, princeling. Secrecy is a natural ally to power. Who will see my return coming, save a few muttering peasants? Who will be prepared to stop me?”

“You overestimate your importance,” Arthur said. “This land has forgotten you.”

“So much the better,” the man – _Cenred_ , if that was really him – said." “Surprise is a weapon of war.”

“What war?” Arthur said sharply.

Cenred spread his hands.

“The war on Camelot, of course. The war to make me her king.”

For a moment Arthur couldn’t speak. And then he began to laugh.

“I think perhaps your sorcerer friends in Essetir didn’t smuggle you out of the citadel in time,” he said when he’d recovered his breath. “You must still be addled from the guard’s beating if you think you might succeed in conquering Camelot.”

“But it was conquered once,” Cenred said calmly. “Your father’s reign was not presaged by diplomacy and niceties. It was forged in fire and blood. He took Camelot in war and he held it that way. Now it will be taken from him.”

“By you?” Arthur sneered. “Better men have tried.”

“Better men didn’t have a dragon,” Cenred said, and Arthur’s stomach dropped.

Camelot’s defences were peerless. Their castle was fortified, their knights were strong, and their sorcerers skilled. Since magic had returned to the land three years ago, Camelot’s might had been made stronger than ever. There was not an army in Albion who could hope to defeat them.

But a dragon. A dragon that had already proved itself impervious to magic and unquellable by sword. Arthur believed in the strength of Camelot but he didn’t know if there was a power on earth that could stand up to the beast he had encountered.

Cold dread flooded through Arthur’s body but he reined himself in. He couldn’t lose control now.

“If you’re so confident in your plan, why am I here?” he said, unable to keep the venom from his voice.

“I’m a more cautious man than I was six years ago,” Cenred said smoothly. “And I like to have all my pawns in place. My dragon will ensure the destruction of your army, it is true, but my army will need a way into the castle. And that is where you come in.”

He stared down at Arthur.

“You’re going to tell me everything you know. How Camelot is defended, where its weak spots reside, what the secret ways into the castle are.”

Arthur looked up, making sure to meet Cenred’s eyes.

“I will tell you nothing,” he said, enunciating every word. “You may depend upon that.”

Cenred sighed.

“I admire your strength of character, princeling, and I expected nothing less. It’s futile, of course. You will break. Perhaps not today, perhaps not tomorrow, but you will. And it’s up to you how… _unpleasant_ things will get before then.”

Arthur set his mouth in a grim line.

“Do your worst,” he said, and let the barest of smirk play on his lips. He was Arthur Pendragon. There was no torture in the world he could not withstand to keep his people safe.

“On your own head be it,” Cenred said, with a careless shrug. “In the meantime, a little insurance. So that you don’t get any foolish ideas about running off before you’ve told me what I need to know.”

He clicked his fingers and two guards stepped into the cell; one with an opened wooden box in his hand. Cenred reached inside to lift out what resembled a black leather circlet, with an ornamental silver clasp. It looked like there might be faint silver writing on the band but Arthur couldn’t tell if it was just a trick of the dim light.

Cenred held the circlet aloft, almost reverently.

“Do you like it, princeling? It’s not as fine as the jewels you are accustomed to, no doubt, but then it’s not made to look nice.”

He bared his teeth a little.

“It’s made to keep you in your place.”

Arthur openly scoffed at that. He didn’t intend to give Cenred the satisfaction of rising to his baits.

“I like to give praise to hard work and this truly was a group effort, I must say. From the tanner who furnished the leather to the silversmith who crafted the clasp.”

He stroked the circlet.

“And of course the sorcerers who cast the magic.”

Arthur’s jaw grew tight. He had suspected sorcery might be involved somewhere. Not for the first time, Arthur wished he had just a little magic of his own, so he wouldn’t be so defenceless when it came to a situation like this.

“This collar will keep you close to me, princeling,” Cenred continued. “The boundary spell will keep you in the castle walls. The tracking spell will tell me where you are at all times. And the leverage spell will ensure you won’t get far should you attempt to run.”

Arthur inwardly cursed. It sounded like the circlet – collar _–_ would make escape almost impossible. _Almost_ because he was a Pendragon and damned if he wouldn’t find a way to break out of here sooner or later.

“It will make you unscryable too, not that you need it within these walls. My castle is completely undetectable by magic, and that includes those pesky visions that the Lady Morgana enjoys. She won’t be able to See you with this on.”

It seemed that they had thought of everything.

“But here, I’m talking too much.”

Cenred laughed affectedly.

“I’ve been waiting for this day for a long time, princeling, forgive me for being overexcited. Enough talk. Let’s give the dog its collar.”

Arthur snarled but the guards were already advancing on him. He struggled as they pinned him down but one held his arms easily whilst the other forced the collar around his neck. It fitted together with an audible click, and Arthur felt a strange sensation, like a sharp tingle running down his spine. The guards released him and Arthur’s hands flew up automatically, although he already knew what he would find. The collar was sealed tight, as though there was no clasp on it. It would take magic to get it off again, that much was clear.

Arthur clenched his fists. It was a horrible feeling, being collared like a beast. More restrictive than the chains around his hands somehow. A visible symbol of his captivity.

“Suits him,” a new voice said and Arthur looked up to see a bearded man enter the cell, swathed in a dark green cloak.

“Doesn’t it?” Cenred said. “I hope he likes what it does.”

The man laughed.

“Shall we find out?”

Cenred nodded, turning back to Arthur.

“A demonstration, princeling,” he said lightly. “In case you’re tempted to stray beyond the boundaries.”

The bearded man stepped towards Arthur, an unpleasant grin on his face. He raised his hand and Arthur braced himself.

The man spoke in the language of the Old Religion, although Arthur could not parse the words. He only had a second to consider it before a sharp pain bent him double.

Arthur had seen a man struck by lightning once and he could only imagine that this was how it felt – his joints and muscles seizing as pain coursed through him; pain too fierce and brutal to endure stoically. He cried out, unable to move his spasming limbs, his hands locked into fists at his side. The world was agony, all around him, he could see nothing but white light, feel nothing but torment.

Then suddenly it was over. His vision cleared, his limbs unfroze, his heart rate slowed. He took one deep breath, then another. When he finally felt able, he straightened up, determined to stare his captors in the face.

The bearded man looked contemptuous; Cenred mock-sorrowful.

“Unpleasant, isn’t it? I hope you realise that it’s much more sensible for you to just do as you’re told.”

Arthur considered this for a second and then spat at their feet.

The sorcerer raised his hand in anger but Cenred stopped him.

“It’s alright, Tauren. The prince is understandably distressed. I will take it from here.”

The man called Tauren looked mulish but he nodded, making a short bow to Cenred before exiting the cell.

“Poor Arthur,” Cenred said softly. “You are proud and your will is strong, and that is an unfortunate combination. I might have to break you completely to ensure your cooperation. I’m not sure what will be left of you by the end.”

He cocked his head.

“Then again, you and everyone you love will be dead before winter ends. So I suppose it doesn’t matter.”

Then he turned on his heel and was gone.

Arthur stared into space for a long time after Cenred left. One part of him was making plans, methodically sorting through the information that he had, contemplating and rejecting escape strategies with a cool objective logic. The other part of him was burning with a furious, sickening rage that set his blood to boil and his mind to rant and rave at the outrage of it all.

The third and smallest part of him was the one he couldn’t acknowledge at all. That part of him was scared.

Scared that he’d give up his secrets and lay Camelot open to attack. Scared that he’d be the one responsible for bringing his father’s kingdom to ruin. Scared that his legacy would be that of Arthur Pendragon: coward and traitor.

Death was nothing compared to that. Arthur was already resolute. He’d die before he told Cenred anything.

He sat until he could sit no more and then moved onto his side, slowly and painfully. The lines of pressure around his chest twinged and he gingerly lifted his shirt to see the damage.

There was a band of bruising around his collarbone and another around his lower abdomen; thin and red, like the area had been rubbed raw.

Arthur’s stomach twisted to remember.

It was where the dragon’s claws had held him.

 

 

 

 

The prince was blond.

Merlin had always imagined people from Camelot to be dark haired. He knew King Uther was and he had heard bards back in Ealdor waxing lyrical about the Lady Morgana’s raven locks. Somehow he’d assumed that Arthur would be the same.

Not that he’d spent much time contemplating Camelot’s royal family before. When he was younger he had lived in fear that Uther Pendragon might invade Ealdor and have him executed for sorcery. But he was captured by Cenred, instead. All fear of Camelot’s king had faded in the face of this new king’s presence. He had barely thought of Camelot since; beyond the occasional rumour that made its way to the castle. One such rumour was that the Lady Morgana had magic, but that seemed unlikely. Even less likely was the accompanying rumour that Uther had accepted it, rather than putting her to the pyre.

If there was a grain of truth to any of these rumours, Merlin didn’t know how it fitted in with Cenred’s plan for Camelot. Not that he was privy to the details beyond what Cenred had told him in no uncertain terms two years ago. Camelot would be conquered and Cenred would be her new king.

Merlin had wished with all his heart that it would never come to pass. But his wish had not been granted. The capture of Prince Arthur was the opening gambit on Cenred’s path to war. The plan was in motion. And Merlin was terrified.

He had hoped this day would never come, knowing full well what his role in it would be. He had prayed at night that Cenred would find his task impossible, that Camelot would rise up to strike him down, that Prince Arthur would never let himself be captured.

But captured he had been. For what could a mere man do in the face of a dragon?

Rún. A dragon trained to perfection to carry out Cenred’s tyranny. Merlin didn’t want to think about Rún right now. He tried to think of the dragon as little as possible, lest his own role in its destructive power choke him with shame.

Rún had succeeded where Merlin had hoped somehow it might fail. It had brought Prince Arthur into Cenred’s hands and now there was no turning back. The fight for Camelot had begun.

The thought was too big and too scary to look at directly. Merlin threw himself into his daily tasks with uncharacteristic vigour, hoping to block out all the worst case scenarios his mind was concocting. He was hurrying across the courtyard to fetch water for the kitchen when a hand reached out to spin him round. Merlin’s heart gave a familiar thump as he saw Cenred’s face before him.

“Sire,” he mumbled and Cenred smiled indulgently.

“How’s my little starling?”

It was not said in derision for once, although Merlin knew that Cenred did not care in any way how Merlin was. Not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth, Merlin muttered something about keeping busy.

“Excellent. A beautiful day for working,” Cenred remarked, his eyes on the clear blue sky.

 _How would you know?_ Merlin thought sourly but he knew much better than to say that.

“In fact, I thought we might bring _Rún_ out later,” Cenred continued, placing a mocking emphasis on the dragon’s name as he always did.

The name had been Merlin’s idea, after he had come across it in one of the old spell books he was given to study. It had been one of his odd insistences that Cenred chose to humour and henceforth the dragon had been called so. But Cenred and the others never pronounced it without a sneer on their lips; only Enmyria did not stoop to ridicule. Merlin wondered if it was because of her druid upbringing - a culture where dragons were paid due reverence and respect. Things like that meant nothing to Cenred.

“I don’t know,” he said, trying not to rile the king. “It’s… tired. After yesterday. And when it’s tired it can be harder to make it obey.”

He let the almost threat hang in the air. Cenred was cruel but he was not stupid and he was aware of the damage an out of control dragon could wreak.

To his surprise, Cenred didn’t look angry. He ruffled Merlin’s hair casually.

“I suppose it’s earned a rest after bringing the prince to us. Tomorrow, though, Merlin – whether it’s tired or not. We march as soon as the prince speaks and _Rún_ will be clearing the way ahead.”

Merlin felt sick. He knew what ‘clearing the way’ meant. Cenred wanted to use the dragon to blast the outskirts of Camelot into submission, to burn the farmer’s houses and ravage their livestock. It was a war tactic designed to induce terror; stripping away both food supplies and hope. Merlin had been horrified the first time he heard of it and that horror remained unabated.

 _It was happening_. It suddenly struck him like a lightning bolt. Gods, it was all finally happening and he wasn’t ready.

His stomach lurched and Merlin knew he had to get out of there. He mumbled something about his duties and Cenred dismissed him in a tone that was almost jovial. Clearly the capture of Prince Arthur had earned Merlin the king’s bonhomie for at least a few days. But he didn’t want it. It was offered because he had assisted in the capture of Camelot’s prince. He was as much to blame as Cenred.

He didn’t make it further than the stables before he had to purge his stomach. He’d barely eaten for the last few days so it was little more than dry heaves that wracked his chest painfully. He stayed leaning against the stable wall for quite some time after, trying to breathe in and out.

He couldn’t do this.

And yet he didn’t have a choice.

 

Training was particularly horrible that afternoon. Merlin was still nauseous and his concentration was shaken. Several times he missed his cue to cast and he narrowly escaped being beheaded when he failed to duck a flying axe.

Tauren and Myror were scathing about his failures. They left the field talking loudly about all the hard work they’d put in for the king recently and how certain other sorcerers weren’t worth the scraps it took to feed them.

Merlin refused to be goaded, even though he knew he’d been working harder than either of them, always did in fact. He supposed they were referring to the collar that had been fashioned to keep the captive prince in line, a project that the other three had been working on for weeks. He hadn’t been involved, thank the gods. He had an idea that Myror would have contributed the boundary spell to track the prince. And Enmyria might have been responsible for tying the magic to the collar. Her magic had always been subtler and more grounded than the two male sorcerers.

He was certain that Tauren added the element of punishment, it was just his style. Tauren had cast the magic on Merlin’s brand that prevented him going beyond the bounds of the courtyard without permission. It was a horrible jolting pain that locked the limbs and set the nerve endings on fire. Merlin had no doubt that they had already showed the prince how it felt and for that he pitied him.

He might ask Enmyria how it all worked later, although he was unlikely to get a straight answer. Cenred didn’t want Merlin’s magic anywhere near the collar; likely because he didn’t trust Merlin to do the job properly. Tasks that involved the infliction of pain, even in a roundabout way, were not ones that Merlin’s magic was well suited to. It always tried to rebel in some way, whether or not Merlin intended it to, and it was one disobedience that Cenred had never managed to train or beat out of him.

Merlin was glad of that. It was comforting to know that there was still some small part of his magic that was beyond Cenred’s control. That belonged to him only.

As he trudged away from the training field, Enmyria fell into step beside him.

“Act like that in a real battle and you’ll be killed,” she remarked.

“Would that be such a bad thing?” Merlin snapped. There were days when the promise he’d made to himself to survive no matter what felt weak and frayed at the edges. It had been easier to make a promise like that when the dawn of Camelot’s invasion was not quite so near.

Enmyria simply shrugged.

“Do what you like. I just think it’s a waste for a wolf to behave like a field mouse.”

It was Merlin’s turn to shrug, grumpily.

“I don’t feel well,” he muttered.

“Get better then, kid. Your mother’s not here to coddle you now.”

And with that Enmyria was gone.

His mother certainly wasn’t here and Enmyria made no attempt to act like her, Merlin thought irritably. She was more like Will’s mother, always clouting her son on the head or kicking him out to sleep in the grain store.

And yet… Enmyria was the closest thing Merlin had to any kind of guidance here in Cenred’s castle. He was under no illusion that Enmyria liked him, or even respected him in any way, but at least she talked to him. She was hard on him in training but never sadistic, and she seemed to take no delight in humiliating him like the others did.

He didn’t even mind her calling him "Kid". It was a damn sight better than the mocking nicknames Myror or Tauren bestowed on him, or even the lewd names certain guards hissed at him in the hallways. And it was infinitely preferable to the hated _little starling_ , which dragged over his skin like sandstone every time Cenred said it.

Enmyria wasn’t an ally. Merlin had no allies. However, she wasn’t an enemy either and she was right about getting better quickly soon. Cenred’s goodwill towards Merlin would only last so long and another performance like today’s would not go unpunished. Also, he needed not to draw attention to himself if he was going to save Camelot.

_What? Where had that come from? Saving Camelot?_

Merlin couldn’t do that. He didn’t know how and any attempt he made would be doomed to failure. That thought was a delusional product of an exhausted brain and nothing more.

And yet it haunted him. All that afternoon as he went about his tasks, his mind kept straying back to it. When he realised he’d been polishing the same sword for half a candle mark, Merlin relented and decided to allow his mind free rein. He would go through every possible strategy for preventing Cenred’s invasion and he would prove to himself that it was impossible. Then maybe he would be able to move on.

He considering assassinating Cenred as he mopped the Great Hall (Merlin’s brand wouldn’t allow him to harm his master). He wondered about sending a secret message to Camelot as he laid the fires (magical means weren’t an option and he knew no one he trusted enough to pass it on to). He pondered letting Rún slip from his control as he washed up the dinner plates (the dragon could no more harm Cenred than he could, the brand kept them both in check). By the time he laid his throbbing head down to sleep that night, Merlin was certain that he’d thought of every possible plan and proved them all to be unworkable. There was nothing to be done, as he had known all along.

It was with a heavy heart and a hollow chest that Merlin drifted off to sleep that night, filled with a muffled dread for the days to come.

Only to wake three hours later and sit bolt upright in bed, a single thought forming clear as crystal in his mind.

_Help Prince Arthur escape._

 

 

 

 

They didn’t feed him for a day. Arthur’s throat was raw with thirst but he refused to ask. He hadn’t seen Cenred again since their first meeting; only the odd servant who came to take away the chamber pot and one guard who had thrown in a worn and ragged blanket for Arthur to sleep under.

He assumed that starvation might be the first tactic in Cenred’s arsenal and could go on for days yet. He was surprised when he woke to the unmistakable scent of food wafting down the corridor. The door clanged and he sat up quickly, intending to put on a good show for Cenred. But he was not the one who had come.

The man who entered his cell was tall and slender, a tray of food cradled in his arms. He was dressed in the garb of a castle servant – navy breeches and a tunic emblazoned with Cenred’s insignia – but his clothes were tighter than others Arthur had seen, and shabbier too. His dark hair was rumpled and there was a small bruise on the side of his face, as though he’d caught his cheek on something sharp.

If Arthur were to be questioned on why he was making such a close study of the man, he might have answered that any deviation from a pattern was significant – and this man did not resemble the other servants in Cenred’s employ.

It wasn’t the whole truth though. The servant was eye catching in more ways than one; with his high cheekbones and his clear blue eyes. But the thought of showing a preference for anyone in Cenred’s employ turned Arthur’s stomach, and shame made him angry.

“Don’t bother,” he snapped. “I’m not eating it.”

The man seemed surprised; not so much by what Arthur said, but by the fact that Arthur spoke at all. He glanced at Arthur and then down at the tray in his hands.

“It’s not, um. It’s not poisoned.”

His voice was soft and hesitant.

“I’ll take your word for it, shall I?” Arthur sneered.

The man licked his lips and looked down again.

“I’ll just put it…”

He bent to lay it down next to Arthur, and Arthur rattled the chains on his wrist.

“I’m not eating Cenred’s poisoned food,” he said, clearly enunciating every word. “Are you hard of hearing or just plain stupid?”

The man flushed and Arthur prepared himself for another round of awkward stammers.

But when the servant spoke again his voice was crisp and clear.

“Why would he poison you when he needs you alive for interrogation? Seems like you’re the stupid one to me.”

The impudence! Arthur might be a captive in enemy hands but he’d never taken such cheek from a servant before and he wasn’t about to start now.

“Not all poison kills. And I don’t remember asking for your useless opinion,” he said rudely.

The man’s lips thinned.

“Right.”

Before Arthur could react, he picked up the tray again. But he didn’t leave the cell with it. Instead he moved to the opposite wall, out of Arthur’s reach and then – unbelievably – sat down.

“If you don’t wanna eat it then I will.”

Arthur gaped. Far from being an idle threat, the servant was already tearing into the bread like there was no tomorrow; dipping a chunk into the stew and shoving it in his mouth.

“If this is a ploy to prove the food is safe,” Arthur said coolly, in an attempt to regain the upper hand, “then you’re wasting your time.”

“Not a ploy,” the servant said through a mouthful of bread. “M’hungry.”

He was acting like this was perfectly normal behaviour. Perhaps Cenred only kept madmen in his employ.

“Does the warlord not feed you?” he asked acidly and the servant shrugged.

“Not enough.”

He gulped down a bit of water and then appeared to consider before holding out the cup.

“Sure you don’t want some? It’s poison free.”

Arthur’s throat was so dry. He didn’t feel like eating right now but a few sips of water…

“There could be something in there to make me suggestible,” he said sharply and the servant snorted.

“If you find a potion that can do that, let me know. I’ll give it to Cenred with breakfast every morning.”

Arthur almost laughed before he caught himself. Instead he scowled at the servant, who was noisily slurping at the stew.

“Perhaps you could take it elsewhere, so I might get some peace and quiet?” Arthur said stiffly.

“You’re a bit of a prat, aren’t you?” the servant said.

“How dare y-”

“Can’t say I blame you, I suppose. It’s not an ideal situation you’re in with-”

“Listen here,” Arthur hissed. “I may be momentarily captive in this hellhole but I am still a prince and I expect at least a modicum of respect, even from skinny serving boys with no manners whatsoever.”

The servant raised his eyebrows.

“A modicum of respect? How much respect is that, exactly? Just so I don’t overdo it.”

“Referring to me by my proper title would be a start,” Arthur said, in the most commanding tone he could muster when his addressee was currently attempting to cram an unfeasibly large hunk of bread into his mouth.

“Hmm,” the man said, narrowly avoiding spraying Arthur with breadcrumbs. “And can I expect an equivalent level of respect? Technically ‘skinny serving boy’ is not the name my mother gave me.”

“I hardly think it matters what your name is,” Arthur said loftily.

“Fair enough. Would you prefer Prince Prat or will His Royal Pratness suffice?”

“This is unbelievable,” Arthur said, at a loss for what else to say.

“You’re telling me. Cook actually seasoned this stew. Don’t get used to that.”

Arthur glared at the servant. He was clearly suffering from some kind of mental affliction. Perhaps Arthur would be able to coax some information out of him if he changed tactics.

“I… apologise,” he said, as sincerely as he could manage. “I would be honoured to hear your name.”

From the narrow eyed look he got, he might have laid it on a bit thick but the man nodded.

“I’m Merlin. Pleased to meet you, Arthur.”

Arthur bit back a sharp retort about overfamiliarity and tried to produce a sort of smile.

“So Merlin, what do you do around the castle?”

“Anything. Everything. General skivvy, me.”

“Mmm. Are there lots of knights in the castle?”

“A few. Thirty, perhaps.”

“And… guards? How many guards?”

Merlin contemplated.

“Maybe forty?”

“Really? Interesting.”

Arthur tried to look like a man who was deeply fascinated by household running costs.

“I suppose you servants must be run ragged what with all the guards to look after and then the army too…”

“Army live separately. Round the towns. Mercenaries mainly,” Merlin said. “S’not so many of them. Three hundred, maybe.”

Three hundred? Three hundred? Cenred planned to invade Camelot with an army that small? It was ludicrous. Morgana alone could probably dispatch them.

“Not counting the sorcerers, of course,” Merlin added and Arthur was brought up short.

“How many are they?”

“Don’t know how many he’s recruited outside the castle,” Merlin said, tearing off another hunk of bread. “Inside there are only four real sorcerers. A few of the knights and guards have some limited powers but not many.”

“What kind of the magic do the four possess?” Arthur asked. He might still be a novice in this field but he knew that most sorcerers favoured certain types of magic. It was true back home at least. Morgana was a Seer. Kara worked best with manipulation of weaponry. Morgause was skilled in both battle and elemental magic.

Merlin pushed the cup of water across the floor.

“Edwin’s a healer. He doesn’t really do any fighting for Cenred; he mainly attends to people in the castle. Myror works with illusion, a lot of his spells are for stealth and misdirection. Enmyria controls fire, mostly. And Tauren… Tauren likes his magic to use brute force. Emphasis on the brute.”

Merlin shouldn’t be telling him this. Any knowledge Arthur had about Cenred’s army could assist his escape – surely Merlin must know that. A sneaking suspicion crossed Arthur’s mind. Had Merlin been sent here by Cenred to feed him false information? Soften him up to put him off guard?

“You’re lying,” he said coldly. “He sent you here, didn’t he? Told you what to say to trick me.”

Merlin laughed and it was a hollow sound.

“He doesn’t need to trick you, _sire_. He’s got you over a barrel. Even if I told you the battle secrets of every fighter in his army, that collar will make sure you can’t do anything about it.”

Arthur gritted his teeth.

“You may tell Cenred when you report back,” he said loudly, “that I have every intention of escaping, collar or not.”

Merlin snorted.

“Tell him yourself. I’m busy enough already.”

“You really can’t talk to me like that,” Arthur said, slightly incredulously.

“Oh I’m sorry. Tell him yourself, _sire_.”

Arthur shot him with one of his patented death stares, the kind that even Gwaine occasionally quailed away from, but Merlin didn’t blink.

“Anyway. What was I saying? Oh right, Tauren. The worst thing about that one is-”

“Shut up,” Arthur said.

“You really think I’m a spy?”

Arthur nodded, folding his arms across his chest as far as the chains would allow.

Merlin looked crestfallen for a moment and then he brightened.

“Fair enough. No military talk. Let’s speak of something else,” Merlin said cheerily.

Arthur squinted at Merlin, wondering if the other man could possibly be genuine.

“Of what exactly? The weather? Kitchen gossip? What colours the ladies in Carleon are sporting this year?”

“I didn’t know you took such a keen interest in ladies’ fashions, sire,” Merlin said, his eyes sparkling. “If you like I could ask the seamstress to whip something up for you.”

Arthur groaned.

“Are you always this cheeky, Merlin?”

“Are you always this pompous, Arthur?”

As Merlin spoke, he nudged the cup of water closer. Arthur regarded it.

“It could be bespelled.”

“It’s not. I may be cheeky but I’m not tricking you.”

Merlin’s tone was sincere. Arthur knew it was foolish to trust someone he’d just met but he might pass out soon without any liquid.

Almost on instinct his chained hand reached out and Merlin lifted the cup to meet it.

The first drop hitting his tongue felt like heaven. After that it was like a dam bursting and Arthur could not help but to drain the cup dry.

Merlin retrieved it and refilled it from the jug. When he passed it back, Arthur gave him a short nod.

Merlin was clearly afflicted but anyone who hated Cenred like he seemed to couldn’t be all bad. Even if Arthur didn’t trust a single word coming out of his mouth.

He asked a few more questions about the sorcerers and the army but it was pointless when he didn’t know if Merlin was telling the truth. The servant answered every question readily enough, which was suspicious in itself. In fact the only thing Merlin didn’t want to talk about was the dragon. He turned pale and avoided the question when Arthur brought it up. Arthur supposed Merlin was scared of it. He couldn’t exactly blame him.

After a while talk had turned to frivolous subjects. Merlin mostly prattled on about the other servants and how hard the work was and which horse was his favourite in the stables when he could sneak away long enough to visit.

At least horses were a subject Arthur was interested in.

“What is he? A rouncey? A courser?”

Merlin looked a bit puzzled.

“He’s brown.”

Arthur decided to ignore that inane comment and press on.

“He’s a battle horse, yes?”

“I don’t think he’s old enough yet.”

“Ah. A colt? A yearling?”

Merlins mouth worked rapidly for a few seconds.

“How many hands is he?” Arthur said, trying to speak slower.

“Hands?”

“How tall?” Arthur said, exasperated.

Merlin chewed his lip.

“He’s quite little,” he finally offered and Arthur groaned.

“So you don’t know anything about this horse?”

“I know that he’s friendly, and likes apples, and loves being brushed,” Merlin said. “What else matters?”

“Whether he’s likely to throw you in the middle of a battle, for one,” Arthur said dryly.

Merlin wrinkled his nose.

“You’re as bad as Cenred. There’s more to life than battles.”

“Yes, I can’t imagine you’d fare very well in one,” Arthur said critically, eyes roving over Merlin’s slender form.

“I’m stronger than I look,” Merlin protested.

“It’s no shame on you. You’re just a servant.”

“Perhaps I’m more than that,” Merlin said, and Arthur laughed.

“Really? Tell me, what exactly are you then?”

For a moment Merlin’s grin faltered, a shadow passing over his face. But it cleared so quickly Arthur thought he might have imagined it.

“Hungry is what I am.”

“Yeah, well, so was I,” Arthur said, looking pointedly at the empty plate in Merlin’s lap.

“Oh don’t sulk,” Merlin said cheerfully. “I’ll go and beg some more off the Cook. She likes me.”

“Someone actually likes you?” Arthur said, and then inwardly groaned at how childish he sounded. This whole conversation with Merlin had been too strange by half; it had knocked him off kilter.

“Now who’s cheeky?” Merlin said triumphantly.

Arthur didn’t deign to respond.

“I’ll be back soon. If you’ve decided you can safely accept food from me.”

Arthur looked at him for a long moment.

“I don’t trust you,” he said at last.

Merlin nodded.

“Probably sensible given your situation. I’ll be back with some food anyway.”

He got to his feet and made for the cell door.

“Wait right here.”

Then he grinned.

“Well I suppose you don’t have much of a choice there.”

And in spite of himself, Arthur smiled.

 

Merlin came back every day after that, ostensibly to bring Arthur food. He seemed to spend more time prattling on about inconsequential rubbish though, which led Arthur to ponder out loud whether Merlin was as useless a servant as he appeared.

In truth, Arthur was glad of the distraction. Three nights in a row, Cenred had returned to ask Arthur about the fortifications of Camelot. Three nights in a row, Arthur had refused to speak a word.

He wasn’t stupid and he knew where this path would lead. Sure enough on the fourth night, Cenred appeared with two large and burly guards in tow.

“Princeling,” he said, lips curved. “Let us end this foolishness. We both know that you will speak eventually.”

Arthur let out a sigh, as though Cenred’s presence was a mere irritation to him.

“Have you anything to say?” Cenred asked.

Arthur inhaled and exhaled before smirking up at Cenred, hoping that contempt was written in every line of his face. There was a short pause.

“You leave me no choice,” Cenred said and he sounded almost regretful. Arthur kept his face set in a sneer as Cenred backed away a few paces to allow the guards room to approach.

He knew what was about to happen and he could only brace himself. It would likely be brutal, but it wouldn’t be the first beating he’d ever taken. He was a Pendragon and he had no intention of breaking down or begging for mercy. Much less revealing the secrets of Camelot’s fortifications.

One of the guards cracked his knuckles and Arthur lifted his chin. He would not make a sound.

 

 

 

 

Merlin paused outside Edwin’s quarters, steeling himself for entry. The physician’s room was a place he tried to avoid as much as possible – he had too many bad memories of brisk and perfunctory treatment on the small straw pallet before being dragged back off to training again.

When Cenred or one of his companions were injured, Edwin would use magic to heal them. The servants had to make do with the normal pastes and tinctures that any non-magical healer would provide. When Cenred needed Merlin, or when he was too badly hurt for traditional remedies, the king would allow Edwin to treat him magically. The rest of the time Merlin was confined to mundane medicines. Nowadays, he was mostly allowed to administer to himself and he had grown adept at treating the burns and bruises he acquired in training on a regular basis.

Today, the medicine wasn’t for him but Edwin didn’t have to know that. Out of necessity Merlin had become a good liar whilst living with Cenred, but deceit still made him nervous. And Edwin had a way of looking at Merlin that made him feel exposed to the very core.

But his task was important so Merlin took one last fortifying breath and knocked on the door.

He was in luck. Edwin was in the midst of treating Tauren for what looked like a muscle sprain. He barely glanced round when Merlin entered.

“I hurt my chest when I was-” Merlin began and Edwin flapped his hands irritably.

“Yes, yes, help yourself.”

Not needing a second invitation, Merlin scuttled over to the cupboard and opened up his satchel. He would have to take more than he normally needed but Edwin was hopefully distracted enough not to notice.

He risked taking a double dose of willow bark, looking around nervously as he did. Neither man was looking his way.

“You could just do this yourself, you know,” Edwin was saying, annoyed. “Your healing magic’s nearly as good as mine.”

“But why would I, when I have you to do it for me,” Tauren said smoothly. “ _Physician_.”

Edwin made a faint hissing sound through his teeth and Merlin quickly palmed some extra ointment.

“That’s all I can do,” Edwin said abruptly.

“Pity.”

“Well, perhaps you should give the little one a try instead.”

The hair on the back of Merlin’s neck prickled and he turned to see both men staring at him. Edwin had a nasty grin on his face.

“He’s no use,” Tauren said lazily. “Cenred’s got his magic locked up tighter than the Lady Morgana’s nether regions.”

“He does keep him on a short leash,” Edwin mused. “Even the castle hounds are allowed off the chain once in a while.”

“Well, there’s a difference between a hound and Merlin, see. One’s a dumb, helpless animal… and the other’s a dog.”

Both men burst out laughing. Merlin blushed hot, shame pooling in his stomach. A retort flew to his lips but he swallowed it down. It wouldn’t do to attract their attention now, not when he had a mission to complete.

Oh, but he hated them. Hated them for their cruelty and their stupidity and their willingness to sell their magic to the highest bidder. As sorcerers, they were supposedly his people – but he felt more kin to the hog herder than either of them. They took pleasure in the misery of others and it made Merlin ill.

He grabbed one last poultice and then ducked out of the room, their laughter ringing in his ears.

He went to the kitchen to get a small clay bowl full of water, and managed to beg an apple cake from Mary while he was there. Her kindness went some way towards ameliorating the sting of his encounter with Edwin and Tauren. He would have liked to stay and chat but time was precious as it was, and so he hurried on to the dungeons.

When he reached the cell he saw Arthur was lying on his side, knees drawn to his chest. There was blood trickling sluggishly from a cut on his forehead, and his right eye was black and swollen. There were no more injuries visible but Merlin could be sure the prince’s clothes concealed a mass of bruises. He knew how Cenred’s guards worked; knew the carefully honed method of their brutality.

When he had first arrived in the castle, Merlin was beaten like this.

He could still remember how it felt. The dispassionate faces of the guards as they systematically kicked and punched him to the point of unconsciousness. Swallowing blood, hot and sharp, as he tried to crawl away from yet another blow. The inevitable moment when he gave into pleading and begging for mercy.

Arthur hadn’t begged. Merlin had heard the guards reporting back to Cenred. He had been defiant – even taunting and mocking them before his breath had run out.

The prince was brave. Merlin admired that, because he never had been. But even bravery had a limit. Merlin recalled that the slow and lonely process of recovery after had felt even worse than the beating itself. He didn’t want Arthur to endure the same despair he had. He knew Cenred wouldn’t be back to gloat for a while yet and he wanted to take his chance while it was available. If he was subtle enough with his treatment, Cenred would never know he had been here.

Merlin didn’t quite know why he cared so much. Perhaps he just wanted to take every opportunity to defy Cenred where possible. Perhaps it was the recollection of his mother’s favourite instruction to him, to be kind wherever possible. Perhaps it was the simple fact that he quite admired Arthur, despite what a prat the other man could be. It had been a long time since Merlin had seen someone stand up to Cenred. He didn’t want Arthur to be broken now; it was more important to him than he could say.

Arthur’s eyes were closed. Merlin set down the water and the satchel, and then crouched beside him.

“Arthur?”

Immediately the prince stirred. His chained hands came up defensively even before his eyes were fully open.

“It’s just me,” Merlin said, trying to keep his voice low. Arthur didn’t seem reassured, trying to heave himself into a sitting position. He let out a whimper of pain and Merlin winced in sympathy.

“Don’t try to move. I’ve brought medicine…”

Arthur slumped back on his side, clearly exhausted by his efforts. He didn’t seem to be understanding so Merlin set the water bowl down and started to unpack the satchel, careful not to make any sudden movements.

Arthur watched him through half-lidded eyes but he made no comment and Merlin decided to risk further contact.

He dipped a cloth into the water and reached out to clean the wound on Arthur’s head.

“Get away from me!”

Arthur could barely move to shove at Merlin but the touch still knocked him off balance. The cloth flew out of his hands and the bowl tipped over, shattering and spilling water everywhere.

“Oh dear,” an acidic voice came from behind him. “This is quite the mess.”

Merlin froze for a second. Then he got to his feet slowly, making sure his face was completely blank before he turned to face Cenred.

“I was just-”

“I can see what you were “just”, Merlin. What I’d like to know is who gave you permission to do that?”

Merlin bit his lip.

“I thought he might-”

Cenred held up one slim finger.

“Answer the question.”

His voice did not brook any further arguments.

“No one gave me permission,” Merlin admitted.

“I see,” Cenred said and then he stepped into the cell, pulling the door shut behind him. “Do you have a brain affliction, Merlin? Any recent head injuries I should know about?”

Cenred’s tone was patronising now and Merlin felt his cheeks heat.

“No.”

“I’m just trying to locate the source of your confusion. Clearly you were operating under the belief that you were the one who gave the orders around here. That you were the master and I was the slave.”

Merlin flinched. Cenred usually liked to preserve some illusion of choice about Merlin’s position in the castle, rather than naming his status so bluntly.

“Servant,” he said, before he could stop himself.

“You’re a slave if I say you’re one,” Cenred said evenly and Merlin bowed his head. He heard Arthur stir slightly behind him and hoped against hope that somehow the prince wasn’t listening to this.

“Well? Are you confused, Merlin? Do you disagree that I’m the master?”

“No,” Merlin said quietly. Insolence was pointless, it was better to just get this over with.

“Do you disagree that I give the orders and you follow them?”

“No.”

“So should you have been patching up our valued guest here without permission?”

“No.”

“Right. Very good,” Cenred said, as though speaking to a small child. “So-”

“If he dies of an infection, you won’t be able to question him,” Merlin blurted out, unable to stop himself.

Cenred narrowed his eyes and Merlin braced himself for the rage to come; whether in the form of a word or a blow.

To his surprise, Cenred laughed.

“Oh, Merlin. You never change, do you?”

He reached out and Merlin flinched back, but Cenred only lightly ruffled his hair.

“What are the staff in Camelot like, Arthur?” he said, without taking his eyes off Merlin. “Do they try your patience as much as this one tries mine?”

Merlin didn’t expect Arthur to reply until he heard a slight rattle of chains behind him.

“We don’t keep slaves in Camelot,” Arthur said, and his voice was laboured but firm.

Cenred laughed again.

“How noble. I’m willing to bet a special case like Merlin might sorely test your principles, however.”

He took a step forward, until he was standing directly in Merlin’s space. Merlin did his best to stay impassive, willing himself not to shy away. He didn’t want to make more of a spectacle of himself in front of Arthur than he already had.

“See, Merlin here likes to be defiant. I play along, Arthur, because quite frankly it amuses me. When you have total control over someone, it can be quite entertaining seeing them try to throw their weight around. Like watching a field mouse square up to a kestrel.”

Cenred’s hands reached out to take hold of Merlin’s shoulders. Merlin felt himself being turned around and he let it happen, pivoting until he was facing Arthur with Cenred’s chest flush against his back.

Merlin didn’t want to meet Arthur’s eyes but he couldn’t look away. The prince was staring up at him, his lips pursed and his jaw tight. He’d heaved himself up to a sitting position and even with his swollen eye and his bruised face, he managed to look impressively imperious.

Despite all that, Merlin wished Arthur wasn’t conscious right now. Cenred was clearly hell-bent on humiliating him, and having an audience only spurred him on.

Cenred’s hand began to trail lightly down Merlin’s side and Merlin tensed. He hated being in such close proximity to Cenred; being able to feel the warmth of the other man’s body. It made him queasy and afraid – like he was fifteen again, and newly captured, and terrified of what this strange tyrant might do to him.

“You can’t have total control over another human being,” Arthur said, his voice rough. “You’re no kind of king if you don’t understand that.”

Cenred chuckled softly.

“Beg to differ, princeling. All it takes is the right incentive…”

Merlin felt bile rise in his throat as Cenred snaked his hand under his tunic, slowly pulling it upwards. He could almost see the moment Arthur’s shock gave way to comprehension, as the brand on his hip was exposed.

“…and a little magic never goes amiss.”

Cenred used his free hand to skim lightly across the raised flesh. Merlin shuddered, feeling the familiar tingle that flared under his skin whenever Cenred touched the brand. It was a horrible, violating feeling – like being stripped in public or held in place by unseen hands. Merlin had never gotten used to it and he didn’t think he ever could.

It was so much worse with Arthur watching. He glanced compulsively at the prince’s face again, only to see that Arthur’s expression had smoothed out, as though the shock was never there.

“Let me guess,” he said flatly. “The brand forces him to obey.”

“More or less,” Cenred said.

“Seems slightly excessive. In Camelot we tend to just pay our servants.”

“Oh, this brand isn’t for all the servants. Merlin here is special. He has certain… skills beyond the usual. Skills that I insist he share.”

“You use his magic,” Arthur said, and his intonation betrayed no surprise.

Cenred let out a puff of air, as if feigning shock.

“You have been paying attention, princeling! Unless Merlin here told you himself. But, I’d be surprised if he did. He grew up thinking Uther Pendragon was the monster under the bed out to eat all magic users. Scourge of little sorcerers everywhere.”

For once, Cenred wasn’t wrong. The litany of Merlin’s childhood had been _keep it hidden, keep it secret._ His mother knew all too well of Uther’s purge and the pyres that burned in Camelot for people like Merlin.

Other than overheard whispers in the halls and the odd confidence that Enmyria favoured him with, Merlin had no clear picture of what Camelot was like now. It seemed that it was not the enemy to magic it had once been but Merlin knew nothing for sure, and so he had not mentioned his magic to Arthur. He had an idea that if Arthur already hated magic, being captured by a king who wielded it so freely wouldn’t have improved matters.

And yet, Arthur looked almost offended by Cenred’s words.

“Camelot’s changed,” Arthur said solidly. “Magic has been welcomed back to the land.”

“Oh, I’m aware,” Cenred said. “I’ve heard all about the good Lady Morgana and her ragtag band of witches. Who’d have thought that all Daddy Uther needed to know was that his precious ward could See more than just handsome princes in her dreams at night?”

“If you think Morgana ever dreamt of handsome princes, you know much less about Camelot than you believe you do,” Arthur said scathingly.

“So the Purge is ended and everything’s rosy again,” Cenred continued, as though Arthur hadn’t spoken. “Pity she couldn’t have mentioned her magic before all those sorcerers were burnt alive, eh?” 

Arthur pursed his lips but didn’t respond. Merlin’s mind was ticking over what he had heard. A ragtag band of witches? In Camelot? Led by the king’s ward no less? The castle rumours had hinted at it but he had never believed things could have changed so much.

It was almost funny, in the most bittersweet of ways. Merlin’s mother had lived in fear of Uther coming to snatch him away. Now, it seemed that he would have been safer in Camelot all along.

A sharp tap on his brand brought him back into the present.

“Always daydreaming,” Cenred said, amused. “I think you begin to understand some of the measures I have to take, Arthur."

“So you branded him?”

Arthur’s voice was thick with disgust.

“Why not?” Cenred said carelessly. “A farmer brands his cows so they don’t stray too far away. To let other people know who they belong to. It’s not so different with Merlin, really.”

Merlin stared down at the floor, chest tight with mortification. He’d heard Cenred say worse about him before, but it was different with Arthur here. He’d spoken back to Arthur, stolen his food, made him laugh. It had been almost like they were equals. And now, Arthur knew what Merlin’s position in the castle really was. How much control Cenred had over him.

It didn’t matter anyway. He and Arthur were not equals and to think so had been a passing madness. Merlin forced the lump from his throat and concentrated on staying still and silent. If he didn’t say anything, if he just stood there, maybe it would be over soon.

“I let Merlin act out and have his little tantrums on occasion. It’s a source of amusement if nothing else. And I do enjoy seeing the look on his face when he finally remembers his place.”

Cenred reached around to pat Merlin’s cheek.

“I’m assuming it’s the look on his face right now. Oh, I know, I know, I should put more effort into disciplining him, then maybe I wouldn’t keep having to deal with these tiny rebellions.”

Cenred grazed his hand across Merlin’s brand.

“But there’s something tragic about a fully broken in horse, don’t you think, princeling? I say it’s more fun where there’s a tiny spark of defiance left.”

Merlin met Arthur’s eyes then and he wished he hadn’t. He could see pity in the prince’s eyes and it was more than he could bear.

He hung his head and Cenred laughed softly.

“Anyway. Enough chatter. The prince needs time to lick his wounds and you, my naughty little cow, need to go and get a cloth to clean this mess up.”

He squeezed Merlin’s side one last time and then let him go. Merlin pulled his tunic back down almost mechanically, humiliation making his fingers tingle.

He waited for the sound of Cenred’s footsteps to die away before he left the cell, but he kept his head low and he did not look at Arthur again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: restraints, brief torture, mind violation

Arthur didn’t think he could hate Cenred any more than he already did but apparently he was wrong. The incident with Merlin in the cell had awoken a fury in him that was surprising. Arthur had known that Cenred was brutal and power hungry but he hadn’t known how truly malicious he was. To humiliate Merlin so thoroughly, all for his own obvious pleasure… it was sickening.

There was something about the look in Merlin’s eyes when his shirt was lifted that Arthur couldn’t get out of his head. There was shame there – the kind of deep abiding shame that comes from years of continual degradation – but more troubling was the look of resignation. It was clear that Merlin had long since gotten used to being treated like this; that he expected nothing better.

It enraged Arthur. Despite Cenred’s intimations to the contrary, Arthur would never treat a servant like that. It was the grossest abuse of power. Even Uther – whose short temper was legendary amongst the household staff – would never stoop so low. Servants were under the care and protection of their masters in return for the services they performed. To mistreat one was cowardice, plain and simple.

Part of Arthur’s rage was fuelled by guilt; he was self-aware enough to admit it. He had been horrible to Merlin even when the latter had tried to clean his wounds; believing him to be a willing tool of Cenred’s corrupt regime. Today had proved that Merlin was far from willing and Arthur wished he had been less hasty. Merlin risked a lot to bring those medicines and Arthur resolved to thank him the next time he saw him.

If he saw him again.

But to Arthur’s surprise, it was barely three hours before Merlin returned to the cell. He had a cleaning rag in one hand and a small sack in the other, presumably for the remains of the broken bowl.

Arthur opened his mouth to speak and then snapped it shut again. Merlin wasn’t meeting his eyes and his body language was closed off, defensive.

He was ashamed and Arthur found it painful to behold.

Merlin crouched over the mess, his back to Arthur. He began to pick up the pieces of the shattered pot and Arthur was close enough to see the faint tremble in his hands.

Arthur didn’t apologise often, other than when Morgana forced him to. But it felt churlish not to offer an acknowledgment of what Merlin had tried to do for him; particularly given the consequences he had suffered.

“Sorry,” he said awkwardly. “For pushing you away.”

“It’s fine,” Merlin said and his voice was distant. “You don’t trust me. I understand.”

“Still, I’m sorry-”

“Sorry for pushing me away or sorry for the fact that Cenred treats me like a dog?” Merlin’s voice was sharp, his fists suddenly clenched tight at his sides.

Diplomacy was a skill Uther had drummed into Arthur from an early age. One of his key lessons had been that there were times to bend or alter the truth, and there were times when nothing but the truth would do. Instinctively, Arthur knew which time this was.

“Both,” he said honestly. “I can see now that Cenred is despicable in all aspects, if it were ever in doubt.”

Merlin’s shoulders relaxed minutely and Arthur knew he had made the right choice. He wasn’t sure all the diplomacy in the world would have let him hide how disgusted he was by Cenred’s actions towards Merlin. Cenred hadn’t just enslaved Merlin; he’d enslaved his magic too. Arthur couldn’t begin to know how that felt but he’d talked enough with Morgause and Gaius about the bad old days to have an idea. He imagined Morgana’s magic being controlled thus and it made him physically shudder.

“Didn’t know you cared,” Merlin said lightly.  Arthur could see it was an attempt to return to equal footing after Cenred’s degradation.

“I don’t, _Mer_ lin,” he drawled, acting the arrogant prince. “I’m just trying to ascertain if you’re useful enough to point me in the direction of Camelot once I’ve run Cenred through.”

“Directions aren’t my strongest point,” Merlin said, and Arthur could see a little more tension drain from his body. “Perhaps we could follow your enormous sense of entitlement?”

“It’s never failed me yet,” Arthur said bracingly and then winced. “Gods. That guard with the potato face packs a solid punch.”

“You’re telling me,” Merlin said.

Arthur glanced up sharply.

“You mean-“

“Cenred isn’t the most original when it comes to punishment. I had the exact same welcoming committee you had. Pretty sure old Potato Face was one of them.”

“Oh,” Arthur said, perturbed by the idea. He was a prince and a knight; he had been trained to withstand pain. Merlin was just a civilian, and he looked younger than Arthur by at least two or three years. Perhaps even more.

“How old are you?” he said curiously.

Merlin screwed up his face and hummed.

“I think nineteen,” he said at last. “Or twenty.”

“You think?”

Merlin shrugged.

“Cenred doesn’t tend to throw me birthday banquets. I was fifteen when I got here. It’s been about four or five years since then.”

“And you’ve been his sl- servant all that time?”

“No, I was king for a while,” Merlin said sarcastically.

“Very funny,” Arthur said, but it wasn’t, not really. Merlin had been here so long he didn’t even know how old he was. It was a disturbing prospect.

“You were captured, then?” Arthur doubted it could be anything else. All signs pointed to the fact that Merlin wasn’t here under his own free will.

“I was scryed,” Merlin said, mopping at the floor. “Cenred had me brought here from Ealdor, my village.”

“Your family…”

“It was just my mum and me.”

Merlin’s entire body seemed to droop before he made a conscious effort to right himself, sucking in a deep breath.

“I’ll find my way back to her.”

His voice was equal parts determination and uncertainty and something in Arthur ached a little to hear it.

Merlin glanced to the side, as though looking for a distraction.

“There’s still a bit of this salve left.”

He turned to hold it out and then suddenly looked nervous, like Arthur might push him away again.

Arthur nodded instead, taking it from him.

He massaged it on his half closed eye, not expecting it to have much effect. But almost immediately the swelling went down.

Merlin must have noticed his surprise.

“It’s magically enhanced.”

Then he looked a bit funny, like he didn’t know how Arthur would react.

“The physician in Camelot could do with a spell like that,” Arthur said and Merlin visibly relaxed.

“So it’s true then?”

“What?”

“Camelot has welcomed magic back.”

Merlin’s eyes were a little wide, like disbelief still lingered.

Arthur nodded.

“Some druids have taken to calling it ‘the flowering’,” he said, because Merlin looked nakedly eager to hear more. “They say magic is entering a new age of strength and Camelot will be blessed again.”

“Took you long enough,” Merlin said and Arthur didn’t try to argue with that. The things that had been done to sorcerers in the Purge were a blight on the land and they all shared in the guilt. Some days, it was hard to look at his father and see the man he loved and respected behind the ruler who had banished and slain so many.

Merlin looked torn between wanting to condemn the ways of the old Camelot and wanting to hear more about the new. The latter seem to win because he moved into a sitting position, body turned to Arthur.

“How did it happen?”

There were many causes Arthur could relate. A softening on the part of his father; a growing regret of all the blood that had been shed. The beginning of overtures to the druids, a new leniency starting to appear in the sentencing of sorcerers. The continued counsel of Gaius, who spoke to the king often of all the good that magic had done once and could do again.

But there was one cause that stood out amongst all the rest.

“My half-sister,” Arthur said. “Morgana. She began to See four years ago. She was terrified, of course, and only confided in her maidservant Gwen. But our physician guessed and approached her. I didn’t know until after they told my father.”

Neither Gaius nor Morgana had ever spoken to him of that conversation but Gwen had been there for it all. She had not related much, save for the moment when Morgana had revealed her magic to Uther. She had gone down on her knees and bared her neck to Uther’s sword, asking him if he could do it. And Uther had wept like a child, Gwen said, before taking Morgana in his arms.

It took a moment for the lump in Arthur’s throat to subside.

“The laws changed,” he said hoarsely. “Not overnight but faster than I could have imagined possible. There was resistance at first, of course. Many people could not change their minds so quickly about all they’d heard of the evils of magic. But there was relief too, much of it.”

Arthur looked at Merlin’s sharp, eager eyes, and decided to explain a little more.

It had been tangible in the air. Arthur remembered walking in the lower town the summer after and detecting something different in the people. A sense of renewal. A teenage boy shyly conjured up a daisy for his mother. A woman stopped a water jug from falling and glanced around as it hovered in the air, nervous at first and then quietly pleased.

Morgana cried the first time magic was performed in the Great Hall, by a jester who conjured a golden eagle to soar above the banquet. Arthur squeezed her hand under the table and watched as she tracked the eagle’s movements, a reflection of its gold in her eyes.

She had been afraid and now she was free, much like Camelot itself. Whenever Morgana walked through the town, people thronged out to tip her a bow or present her with flowers; voices thick with emotion as they thanked her for what she had done.

It empowered her, Arthur could tell. Morgana had never been very good at tolerating the restrictions courtly life imposed on women of her status and spent most of her teenage years sneaking off to join Arthur at training or dragging Gwen into the forest on a “quest”. Uther had indulged her, but there’d always been the expectation that she would settle down and marry a noble someday and dedicate her life to more appropriate hobbies, such as embroidery and music. Arthur suspected Morgana would have run away to sea before she would have embraced a life of embroidery, but the legalisation of magic changed everything.

Merlin smiled at that.

“She sounds like an interesting person,” he said and Arthur laughed.

“Probably one of the kinder words used to describe my sister,” Arthur said fondly. “But yes. Things changed fast for her. When the Purge was over we had to recover all the knowledge that we’d lost over the years. And Morgana was right at the forefront of it.”

For months she had seemed to live in Gaius’ chambers, the two of them poring over ancient tomes and examining artefacts rescued from the vaults. Gaius was able to teach her some small spells, and Arthur would often come in to find Morgana’s face flushed with pleasure, gesturing him over so she could show him whatever new trick she’d mastered. He was glad to see it, even if their relationship continued in the same teasing manner it always had. For there was no edge to the teasing anymore on her part, no hidden anger or sorrow. Morgana was happy, perhaps for the first time since she had come to Camelot. Her long restlessness was finally subdued; she had found herself a purpose in life.

That purpose grew and grew. As more and more sorcerers and druids began to return to Camelot (though many were understandably cautious after years of persecution), Uther began to recognise the need for magic in the Camelot’s defences. The question was, how to persuade a group of people that were still not ready to trust the king after all that had come before?

The answer was Morgana. It was she who provided a home to the wandering sorcerers new to the city, and soon her and Gaius’ private lessons had expanded considerably. First came Sefa, a shy and gentle girl who possessed great skill in earth magic, particularly plant growing and animal taming. Then the bolder Kara, who wielded magic like she wielded a sharp tongue, and had to learn to control her simmering powers through meditation and mindfulness. Quiet Daegal was next, a natural healer who soon took up the position of Gaius’ assistant, his magic adept at diagnosing the causes of bodily dysfunction.

“I would like to do that,” Merlin put in, his tone pensive.

“Healing?”

“Yes. My mother was the village healer. She taught me how to make some medicines. I mean, I was fourteen so I didn’t pay as much attention as I should have…”

Arthur smiled.

“Daegal almost pays too much attention. He’s the most nervous person I’ve ever known. Whereas Kara would sooner climb out the window than listen to instructions for too long.”

“She sounds like a handful.”

“She didn’t really calm down until Morgause came.”

Merlin leant forward a little, sensing the weight Arthur gave to the new name.

“Who’s Morgause?”

Arthur settled against the wall, hand on his sore ribs.

“A sorceress. A warrior. And Morgana’s half-sister, as it turned out.”

Morgause arrived in Camelot in full knight’s armour, eyes bright with suspicion and hands poised to strike down any who dared cross her. She did not trust Uther’s peace or Camelot’s offer of friendship. All she knew was that Morgana’s magic had called to her and she could not stay away. And she brought with her the secret of their shared parentage.

The revelation was both hard and easy on Morgana. Hard to accept such news after so many years in the dark and also easy, because their connection was clear from the first meeting. Arthur spent the first few months after Morgause came childishly jealous; because he and Morgana had been siblings first, and now she and Morgause had the added connection of magic that Arthur could never hope for.

The jealousy passed when he saw how sincerely Morgause looked to Morgana’s wellbeing, and how seriously she took Morgana’s development. Gaius was the first to admit that his magic was limited; he had knowledge but little practical experience to impart. Morgause, on the other hand, had magic more powerful than any other sorcerer who had drifted to Camelot and was keen to share her skills with Morgana. It wasn’t so hard for Morgana to persuade Morgause to tutor the other sorcerers too, to share her wisdom with those who had grown up knowing nothing of what their powers could do.

Morgause quickly became instrumental in their little school but she kept herself apart from the rest of the castle. She did not wish to make nice with Uther and she seemed to view Arthur with a faint sense of hostility, as though he was nothing more than an extension of his father. Arthur in turn kept his distance.

“Why?” Merlin asked.

“I was resentful,” Arthur admitted. “I’d always had Morgana to myself, no matter how much we quarrelled. And Morgause didn’t like me. Well, she didn’t like my father and it basically seemed to amount to the same thing.”

“You can hardly blame her for not liking your father,” Merlin said softly and Arthur sighed.

“I know. Too much trust was shattered during the Purge for it ever to be fully recovered. But I didn’t know what she wanted from Morgana yet. She talked about the world beyond Camelot so often that I was scared one day she might just spirit Morgana away.”

“So what happened next?”

Merlin had moved to lie on his front, his chin resting in his hands. Arthur couldn’t help but fondly think that he looked like a child awaiting a favourite bedtime story.

“I was practising out on the field one night and she came by.”

Camelot’s knights had been diminished at that time, many of the older ones leaving or retiring in protest at the return of magic. Privately, Arthur thought good riddance to them, but he was having to work much harder to motivate the ones who remained. Hence why he had been practising alone even as dusk fell; he could not afford to stumble when leading training and lose the respect of his men.

The clink of a sword against his had broken his concentration and he had surged forward, batting the combatant away on instinct. But it had only been Morgause, holding aloft the spare sword he had laid on the ground.

“You always leave your left side vulnerable,” Morgause said abruptly, dropping it again.

“How would you know?” Arthur said, equal parts irritated and confused.

“I’ve seen you practice. You fight well but you should guard your left better with your shield. It’s the kind of weak spot that could get you killed.”

“Would it matter to you if I did?” Arthur said, a little snappish.

Morgause looked at him with half-lidded eyes.

“It would matter to Morgana.”

Arthur regarded her for a long moment. For the first time, he had wondered what it must have been like for her to return to a land where her kind had been persecuted for years, and whether a part of her had been afraid. What it had cost her to come back and how much she must care for Morgana to remain.

“Can you help me?” he said, and he wasn’t just talking about sword practice.

“I don’t know yet,” Morgause said, her voice contemplative.

Arthur had picked up his spare sword and held it out.

“We won’t know until we try,” he said.

There had been a long silence and then Morgause had nodded, reaching out to take the sword from his hand.

After that, there was a kind of truce between them. Arthur began to stop by more often when Morgause was teaching the youngsters, and sometimes he would ask questions of his own. They would mainly be about defensive magic, and if there was a way he and his knights could be better protected whilst out on patrol.

It was just questions at first, merely hypothetical, but it became real the first day Morgause showed up at training and began shooting spells at the knights.

“What, just like that?” Merlin asked incredulously.

“Yes, just like that. A little warning would have been nice but I took it in stride. It’s not like we’d get any warning with a real magical threat anyway.”

The knights were not happy, but they understood once Arthur’s explained the benefit of Morgause’s presence. Ever loyal, Leon rallied the men behind Arthur, backing up his assertions that they were stronger with magic than without it. Within a few months, it was hard to imagine a practice without her there. It was later that she began to bring some of the younger sorcerers along to try and see how their magic melded with the battle skills of the knights.

After three weeks spent ducking away from swords in terror, Daegal sighed in relief when Arthur finally bade him go. Sefa was a little better, but was clearly so uncomfortable with the idea of using magic to fight that Morgause gave her permission to return to Gaius’ tutelage. Kara, however, took to it like a duck to water and managed to retain a surprising amount of control over her temper even when shooting blasts at six advancing knights. Something about channelling her aggression into her spells seemed to soothe it and she quickly became a regular fixture at training too.

“Were the sorcerers knighted?” Merlin asked.

“No because none of them wanted to be. But unofficially, they’re part of us. When I think of the knights in my head now, I think of the sorcerers too.”

It wasn’t only Arthur who felt that way. Now when Uther called the knights to a meeting, Morgause and Morgana and Kara were always in attendance. A practice without them there felt strange somehow, incomplete.

“And your father thinks that too?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way but…” Merlin worried his lip. “I can’t imagine it. Cenred was actually right in what he said before. When I was growing up, King Uther _was_ the monster under the bed. I used to have nightmares about him coming to Ealdor and putting me on a pyre. Even the bards who passed through the village would say he had a temper that rivalled a baited bear’s.”

Arthur leaned his head back against the wall. It was hard to hear someone talk of his father that way and yet he knew the truth behind the words.

“He changed a lot,” he said with difficulty, seeing the scepticism in Merlin’s eyes. “It’s hard to describe.”

Merlin settled back on his hands, looking almost disappointed. For some reason, Arthur didn’t like that. He preferred it before, when his stories of Camelot were making Merlin’s face light up in excitement. He might have been enjoying bragging a little, trying to impress Merlin, but there something deeper underneath it. He wanted to show Merlin that there were places beyond Cenred’s control, where servants were not mistreated and magic wasn’t hidden or coerced. He felt it was something Merlin needed to hear.

So, haltingly, he tried to explain.

Uther had been changed by grief, Gaius always said. He told Arthur stories of the person Uther had been sometimes, before Ygraine had died, and Arthur could scarcely believe it. He couldn’t see the happy, thoughtful, merciful man that Gaius described in the father he had always known.

Not that Uther was ever cruel to him or Morgana. But his standards were exacting, his criticism biting, and his affection oft withheld. Arthur usually felt that he could do nothing right, and he could only imagine later how frightened Morgana must have been when her powers first manifested. The Uther they had grown up with was not a forgiving man.

But Uther after the Purge had ended was a different proposition altogether. He did not revert to the man Gaius described in his stories. It could not be said that he was happy. However, he was thoughtful again, and merciful. His rulings no longer sought to condemn regardless of circumstance, and he was no longer deaf to reason where complexity was concerned.

He was guilty too, and that was hard for Arthur to see, even if he knew his father had done wrong. He spent long hours in his chamber, reflecting, and Arthur would see the grief lined in his face when he emerged.

Arthur spoke at length to Merlin about the ways Uther had tried to change for the better in recent years, but he could see from Merlin’s face that he was unconvinced.

“You can’t tell me sorcerers don’t still live in fear of his temper,” Merlin argued.

“Well, we all live in fear of his temper,” Arthur said wryly. “But sorcerers are no more likely to be on the receiving end than anyone else.”

It almost seemed as if his father was determined to prove himself in that regard. The first time Morgana had used magic in an argument with Arthur (by snapping the belt on his trousers, which was _extremely_ unfunny, and Arthur was entirely justified in throwing wine all over her new dress later), they had both forgotten their quarrel and looked fearfully to Uther. But he had only shook his head and told them to go and live in Tír-Mòr if they wanted to behave like street urchins. Which had in essence been his response to their fights since they were children and still entirely terrified of the mysterious Tír-Mòr and the urchins contained therein.

Their father held steady even when put to the test again. When Arthur insulted Morgana over supper one night and she set his plate on fire, Uther had only mildly remarked that Arthur deserved it. And when Kara had levitated a bucket of pig slop over a guard’s head for attempting to grope her breast, Uther had reprimanded the guard, not her.

Merlin sniggered rather uncharitably at the story about Arthur’s snapped belt but his face soon turned serious again. Arthur wished he had the words to convince Merlin that his father was no threat to magic anymore.

“I do not attempt to justify what my father did in the past,” he said. “But he is not that man anymore.”

For a moment it looked like Merlin would not relent, his mouth set in a hard line. Then he sighed and his face relaxed a little.

“Better late than never, I suppose.”

It was a concession and Arthur gratefully took it.

“So you had all your knights and sorcerers together?” Merlin said, leaning forward.

“Yes. Well, almost.”

With Uther less available, Arthur took up the responsibility of training and managing the knights. Becoming the sole overseer of their progress and noting the difference magic had made to their practice inspired Arthur to think of further alterations. He had not yet replaced the knights who had left and an unusual solution had presented itself to him, sparked by the recent return of Gwen’s brother to Camelot.

Elyan had taken up residence in the forge after years of travelling and Arthur had often visited to commission new swords or armour. Several times he had come across Elyan testing the swords himself and he had noted the man’s natural skill and balance in handling a weapon. It was the kind of potential he had spotted in many squires before, prior to inviting them to train with him. The only difference was, Elyan was not of noble blood.

The issue occupied his mind for some time and meeting Gwaine kicked everything into sharp relief. Arthur had gone with Leon on a ride and stopped in a tavern for refreshment. A roughshod man had tried to threaten the tavern keeper for money and Arthur had taken objection; little knowing that the man had a rather large group of friends accompanying him. He and Leon had resigned themselves to rather unfavourable odds when another man leapt into the fray, turning the tide of the fight in their direction. Impressed, Arthur offered him lodging in Camelot for the night.

Three months later, Gwaine showed no sign of moving on and Arthur was almost beginning to regret his kindness. Almost because, although Gwaine was feckless and ridiculous and flirted with anything that moved, he was a damn good fighter. Arthur had seen it in the tavern and had confirmed his suspicions on the occasions Gwaine could be persuaded away from his cups for a friendly bout in the courtyard.

Again, it was the Elyan issue. Gwaine was a commoner too. The rules of knighthood were very clear and yet Arthur was beginning to wonder if they were a hindrance rather than a boon at this point. He had two good men (well, perhaps good was stretching a point in Gwaine’s case but two _skilled_ men at any rate), both of whom would be an asset to Camelot’s defences and neither of whom seemed suspicious of or cowed by magic in the least. And yet he couldn’t make use of them. It was frustrating beyond endurance.

He had ended up going to his father. Uther was highly sceptical at first.

“The rules exist for a reason, Arthur. They are not to be taken lightly.”

“Some rules outlive their usefulness,” Arthur argued and Uther sighed, as if aware that only recently the biggest rule of all had done just that.

“Who are these men? How do you know we can trust them with no knowledge of their families or their kin?”

“Elyan was raised by Tom, he’s worked your forge faithfully for over twenty years,” Arthur pointed out. “And his sister is Morgana’s most trusted maidservant, she speaks constantly about Gwen’s loyalty and truthfulness.”

Uther nodded, as though conceding the point.

“And this… Gawain?”

“Gwaine,” Arthur said. “Gwaine is…”

Here words rather deserted him.

“He saved my life not long ago,” Arthur said a little weakly. “And… and Leon can vouch for his skill! He only said recently that Gwaine had potential to be one of the best knights among us.”

Actually Leon’s full remark was that Gwaine had potential to be one of the best knights if he would ever give up his attachment to being a drunken and promiscuous lout, but Uther didn’t quite need to know that.

Merlin laughed out loud at this point and Arthur ending up getting side-tracked for a few minutes, providing a well-chosen story or two about Gwaine to back up Leon’s assertion.

“So Uther said yes?”

“Not right away. We talked a bit longer and then he asked me to go away so he could think about it. I sat on my hands for two weeks and then he called me back to his chambers and agreed.”

It had seemed that Uther was beginning to accept that change led to more change, whether he liked it or not. And the safety of Camelot would always come first for him. He trusted Arthur’s assertion that the knights would be stronger with these new additions.

“Then I went back with a new request four months later.”

“Another commoner?” Merlin said eagerly. He seemed very taken with the idea that those of common birth were being welcomed into knighthood, which made sense considering his own status. Arthur hoped Merlin was beginning to understand that Camelot had become a place where all were welcomed, regardless of birth or ability.

“That’s what my father asked me. Only his tone was slightly less excited.”

Uther’s tone had been downright wary in fact.

“I admit that Elyan has been a successful addition to the knights, although I remain concerned about Gwaine.”

“We’re all concerned about Gwaine,” Arthur said promptly and Uther gave him a pointed look.

“So? Is it another commoner?”

“No, Father. Royalty in fact, a member of the Gawant lineage and from a long tradition of much admired horsemen and warriors.”

Uther relaxed visibly. 

“A much more suitable sounding proposition. What is the young man’s name?”

“Her name is Elena,” Arthur said and started forward in alarm when Uther appeared to choke on thin air.

The argument that followed was long and ill-tempered and spanned several months. In the end it was Morgana who settled it, by suggesting Elena compete in the upcoming tourney, her identity concealed. She made it all the way to the final, with Uther wholeheartedly cheering the brave young knight from Eire. When she took off her helmet to reveal her face, Uther went a shade of red that Morgana would later describe as “pig trotter puce”. But the crowd loved her, and she had proved herself a fighter. Uther wearily conceded, claiming that on Arthur’s head be it.

Arthur had never regretted his decision. Elena was an assured combatant and rider, even if she was slightly lacking in certain social graces and had the occasional tendency to trip over her own feet.

He suspected his father could not regret it either, when he saw the well-oiled machine the knights had become under the tutelage of Arthur and Morgause.

Uther and Morgause would never truly see eye to eye, there was too much bad blood between them. Yet they found a way to tolerate one another and even cultivated a certain respect for the others leadership skills. They had their love for Morgana in common; a love that bound them together if nothing else could. Some nights at dinner Arthur would catch Morgana watching the two of them talk and she would smile at him and raise her eyes as if to say _look how far we’ve come._ And he would smile back, because he could hardly believe it either.

Arthur hadn’t realised how long he had talked until he heard how hoarse his voice had become. He took a sip of water and looked at Merlin, whose eyes were bright and keen. He’d sat up again, hugging his knees to his chest, as though he could barely contain himself.

It gave Arthur a pang in his heart. A land where magic was free was alien to Merlin, he suddenly realised. The new Camelot must sound like an impossible dream to him.

“I have spoken more than I intended,” he said a little awkwardly and somehow that broke the spell, because the wistfulness in Merlin’s eyes was replaced by mirth.

“That’s an understatement. You like the sound of your own voice, don’t you?”

They both knew he was teasing; the look in his eyes clearly expressed how glad he had been to listen.

Merlin yawned a little and then caught himself.

“I should go.”

It all seemed to press in on them then, as though Arthur’s remembrances had been a temporary reprieve from the reality of the situation. The tension was back in Merlin’s shoulders, he half stood up before dropping to his knees again.

Merlin bit his lip before seeming to steel himself.

“I didn’t just come down here to clean up. I came to say… to say…”

He cast his eyes down.

“Cenred wants his answers from you and since this didn’t work-“

He gestured at Arthur’s face.

“-he’s going to try something else.”

“What?” Arthur said, bracing himself. It was better to know, so he could be ready, even if there was nothing he could do.

“There’s a spell. It… it can be used to delve into the mind of another person. To get information from them.”

Arthur’s stomach dropped.

“He’ll make me do it on you,” Merlin whispered. “I’m sorry, Arthur.”

Arthur looked back at Merlin’s bowed posture and took a deep breath. He had already known it would come to something like this.

Arthur had realised on his third day of captivity that they would get the information from him somehow. The sorcerers were too strong and their magic was too great; he wouldn’t be able to hold out forever. He made his peace with that. The only thing he could do now was to stall as much as possible. His father would plan for the worst, Uther always did. Camelot would be on alert for an attack even as they searched for him. The longer he held out, the more time they had to prepare for invasion.

He had done what he had to as a soldier. He had held out for as long as he could and he would go on holding out until the day Cenred forced Merlin into his head. It was the most he could do from here to help his kingdom.

He met Merlin’s eyes and gave him a nod.

“If it comes to that, I won’t blame you,” he said steadily and Merlin drew in a shaky breath.

“I’ll… I’ll be as gentle as I can,” he said and it sounded like a vow.

“I know you will,” Arthur said before he could stop himself, and then wondered where such assurance had come from. He had known Merlin for no more than a week, and it was ridiculous to trust him so soon.

And yet he needed someone to trust, here. Rightly or wrongly, he needed to keep a little spark of hope alive to keep himself fighting.

Arthur might be deluded, but at least it seemed to be a shared delusion. Merlin had no reason at all to sneak Arthur medicine or tell him Cenred’s plans, but he did it anyway. Arthur suspected he was the first person in a long time that Merlin had been able to talk to, and it seemed they were both taking some kind of odd comfort in the companionship of the other.

Arthur didn’t question it too much. Strange bonds were formed in times of war, his father had always told him. And what was this if not a time of war?

  

 

 

 

He didn’t see anyone until dusk the next day. When Cenred returned, he had both Merlin and a strange blonde woman at his side, her hair tightly braided and her expression coolly inscrutable.

“I’ve enjoyed our little game so far, princeling,” Cenred said by way of greeting. “But all good things must come to an end, sadly. The time grows near for our departure to Camelot, and you have not yet given me what I need.”

“My heart bleeds for you,” Arthur said.

Cenred’s eyes flashed.

“I was about to say that pain doesn’t seem to be a motivating factor for you, but perhaps I should test that hypothesis one last time.”

Arthur kept his expression aloof. He wasn’t going to beg for clemency.

Cenred narrowed his eyes and then clicked at the blonde woman. She stepped forward and looked to the king.

“Fire,” Cenred said to her.

A moment later Arthur understood why. No sooner had the woman raised her hand then he felt a searing heat all over his body. He looked down in panic, ready to beat the flames out, but there was nothing to see. The fire was under his skin, scorching him from the inside out, burning through him. He cried out in pain, unable to stop himself, and yet the torture didn’t cease until he was prostrate on the floor, fists clenched tight in agony.

The cool of the cell floor was of some relief when the burning finally subsided. He lay still and tried to catch his breath. Almost unconsciously his eyes sought Merlin’s and the other man looked white with distress.

“You know how to make the pain stop,” Cenred sing-songed.

“I won’t tell you anything,” Arthur spat, pulling himself up to a sitting position.

Cenred nodded thoughtfully.

“I believe you, princeling,” he said, his tone confiding. “I think you’re all too capable of keeping those secrets locked up inside your head.”

Arthur nodded grimly and Cenred smiled.

“Well. We’ll just have to go in there and get them.”

It was as Merlin had warned him. Arthur’s breathing began to quicken. Was it better to give them up now, to avoid the horror of having his mind invaded?

But no. He couldn’t bear to give it up voluntarily. The difference might not matter to some but it mattered to Arthur.

He clamped his lips together and Cenred sneered.

“As you wish. Merlin!”

Merlin jumped from where he’d been standing in the corner, stiff and still, as though he hoped they’d forget about him.

“Are you sure we shouldn’t just-”

Cenred cut him off with a raised finger.

“You’ve already tried my patience once this week, little starling. I advise you to think very hard before defying me again.”

Merlin bit his lip and Arthur was torn between wanting Merlin to protect himself and wanting him to somehow hold out against Cenred.

“My lord, I can perform the spell,” the blonde woman said suddenly. Merlin startled slightly, turning to face her.

Cenred waved a dismissive hand.

“You haven’t the power, Enmyria.”

His eyes fixed on Merlin’s.

“I know you don’t enjoy to be forced. So be a good boy.”

Arthur’s skin crawled afresh to hear how Cenred talked to Merlin. He truly was a force of manipulation; couching his cruelty in terms that suggested he had only Merlin’s best interests at heart.

Merlin’s eyes flickered from Cenred’s to Arthur’s, a little frantically. Arthur could see the struggle in his eyes; Merlin’s reluctance to cast the spell weighed against the fear of what Cenred might do to him for disobeying.

He clearly hesitated too long because Cenred flicked his hand.

“Enmyria, give the prince another taste of fire.”

“No!”

Merlin sounded truly distressed. In another situation, Arthur might almost have been touched.

As it was, he knew his strategy. They had been outplayed. Cenred would continue to torture Arthur until Merlin agreed, or he would get bored and force Merlin to cast the spell. There was no escape route that Arthur could see and no way to strike at Cenred he could fathom. It was time to cut his losses.

He nodded at Merlin, slow and sure. Merlin’s eyes widened and Arthur nodded again.

_Do it. You have no choice._

Merlin seemed to understand, but he didn’t look happy about it. His head drooped and his fists clenched at his sides; before uncurling. When he looked up again, his face was carefully blank.

“Alright.”

He walked over to where Arthur was chained and knelt down in front of him. Arthur wasn’t expecting that; he thought Merlin would cast from where he stood. The reason became clear when Merlin placed his hands on both sides of Arthur’s face, almost cradling him.

“I need a moment to prepare,” he said loudly. Then, for Arthur’s ears only, he whispered: “I’m sorry.”

Arthur wasn’t angry. Not at Merlin. He was afraid at what was about to happen and even more afraid of what was to come when his secrets were revealed. But not angry, not when Merlin had as little choice as he had.

He met Merlin’s eyes and tried to convey some of that. Close up, Merlin looked very tired. There were dark circles under his eyes, his skin was pale, and his fingers were trembling slightly against Arthur’s skin.

“It might help to close your eyes,” Merlin murmured and Arthur did, shutting Cenred and Enmyria out.

  

 

With his eyes shut, his focus narrowed to the feel of Merlin’s fingertips at his temples. He could hear Merlin’s quiet breaths in and out, and a minute hitch in between that almost sounded like a sob.

Then Merlin said something and the world drifted away.

Arthur couldn’t describe it any better than that; it was as though all at once his body felt very light, like it was no longer weighed down to the earth. He felt detached, but pleasingly so, free from all concerns or worries.

Then the voice began to speak.

It was a sensation unlike any he had experienced. It was as though someone was talking inside his head, as intimate as if it were his own mind speaking to him.

It wasn’t at all unpleasant. The voice was very soothing and it was speaking quite calmly.

_Can you tell me about Camelot’s defences?_

Yes, of course Arthur could. But weren’t there more important things at stake right now?

“I’ve been captured,” he confided to the voice.

 _I’m sorry to hear that_ the voice said, and it did indeed sound very sorry.

“I need to find a way out.”

_Yes. I understand. I think the best way right now is to tell me about Camelot’s defences._

“How will that help?” Arthur said, confused.

_It’s a means to an end. Do you trust me?_

“Yes, of course,” Arthur said readily. The voice was a part of himself. Why wouldn’t he trust it?

_Alright. I’ll just ask you some questions and you can answer them._

“But-”

_Trust me._

“Alright,” Arthur said, settling down. He was sure his body had been aching before, but now he felt amazingly comfortable, as though he was wrapped in cotton, somewhere warm and safe.

The voice asked a series of questions about Camelot’s army, its sorcerers, the castle fortifications and Arthur answered dutifully. After about ten minutes, he began to feel slightly restless. He was still mostly calm but there was a faint nagging feeling in the back of his mind, that perhaps there was something he’d missed…

_Are there are secret passageways into the castle?_

Arthur frowned. He could have sworn he heard a vague echo, as though a different, harsher voice had asked the question first.

“If there were, they’d be secret,” he said, suddenly feeling mulish. They’d been talking for too long, he was tired now.

 _You can tell me, Arthur_ the voice said.

“No. They’re secret.”

Arthur’s limbs weren’t feeling so comfortable anymore. His leg was beginning to ache and he could feel a pain in his stomach, like he’d recently been kicked there.

The harsher voice said something that Arthur couldn’t quite hear and he twitched, because something wasn’t right here.

 _You can tell me anything_ the voice said but it didn’t sound as soothing as before.

“No,” Arthur said. “I’m not telling.”

The harsh voice said something else, louder this time.

 _Arthur, please_ the voice said, with a desperate tinge. _Don’t make me…_

“Go away,” Arthur said angrily and there was a short silence.

He felt the most odd sensation, like a pair of cold fingers pushing at the surface of his neck. But not just his neck, all around him, his face too, his eyes, the back of his skull.

Then they weren’t on the surface anymore but rather inside him, pushing and pushing at his mind until he felt sick and dizzy.

“What are you-”

Arthur gasped out loud. The probing had turned painful, like someone was squeezing his head in a vice grip, the pressure bearing down on him. The voice spoke again and this time there was nothing soothing about it, it was rough and frantic.

_Tell me about the secret passageway. Tell me. Tell me now._

“I-”

_Tell me._

“No-”

_Tell me._

The vice gripped tighter and Arthur cried out, completely disorientated. The voice was nowhere and it was everywhere, rattling inside his head, stirring him up, shaking him so hard he couldn’t think straight.

_Tell me._

Arthur cried out in pain. The pressure was too much, he couldn’t hold out. But he couldn’t tell, he wouldn’t tell, it wasn’t right.

_Now, Arthur. Now, Arthur! NOW!_

“The East Gate!” he screamed, his will no longer his own. “The trapdoor behind the well! It leads to the catacombs under the castle!”

All at once the pressure stopped, as quickly as if it had never been there. Arthur fell backwards, his head hitting the wall behind him. His ears were ringing and his whole body shook, compulsively, right down to his twitching fingers. He couldn’t move or speak, couldn’t recover from the shock of what had just happened; the feeling of cold fingers delving in his mind, forcing the thoughts right out of his head…

It was a violation of the worst kind. The safety of his own mind had been taken from him.

He refused to open his eyes. He didn’t even know if he could. He just leaned against the wall and breathed until he heard the cell door close. Even then he stayed still, trying not to think about anything, as though clearing his mind was the only defence he had left.

 

 

 

 

He didn’t expect Merlin to come back that night, to risk discovery in the cell again. Yet he heard the familiar sound of light footsteps as he lay in the dark, and a flickering light coming closer to the cell.

“Arthur? Are you asleep?”

Arthur was not asleep. He didn’t know how he’d ever sleep again. He felt cracked in two, torn down the middle. He could not stop the shaking of his hands, nor the twitch in his eye. He could not prevent his mind from replaying the events of that evening, over and over again, a spinning top that would not cease.

He would have borne a thousand beatings rather than be subject to that… _invasion_. Physical pain could be withstood. The attack in his mind had been something altogether different, and he could not imagine going through it again.

He had not looked up yet but he could see the figure of Merlin illuminated by the lit candle he held. The figure was motionless for a few moments before coming to sit down by Arthur’s side and standing the candle between them.

No one spoke for a long time. Then:

“I’m sorry,” said a miserable voice near his ear.

Arthur didn’t blame Merlin. Left to another sorcerer, it would probably have been worse.

And yet, Arthur didn’t want Merlin to touch him just now, so he pulled away from the hand hovering near his arm and said:

“It wasn’t your fault.”

Merlin’s eyes were flecked with sadness but he nodded. There was nothing more to stay.

“I came to tell you that we’ll be on the move to Camelot tomorrow.”

Arthur tried to think past the clamour in his own head for a second, to focus on what was important.

“They’ve mapped a course?”

“Yes.”

“Who’s coming?”

“Everyone. The army, the sorcerers… Rún.”

“Rún?”

“That’s the name of the dragon.”

Arthur didn’t want to hear its name. He didn’t feel it deserved one.

“Well. Whatever route Cenred takes, he won’t be able to keep hidden for long with that thing.”

“I don’t think he’s planning on that,” Merlin said with a hint of disgust. “I think he wants Rún to blaze a trail ahead of him, sending them all scattering in fear.”

It made sense. It would normally be wise to conceal a great weapon till the moment of use. But that mattered little if there was no known defence against it, no hope of defeating it. A dragon would inspire nothing but fear. It would have a devastating effect on any army’s morale.

Arthur didn’t want to think like that. Morgana and the others would have been working on defences since he was taken. Surely one of them could find something? Some arcane way to battle a dragon?

“Perhaps this is why the dragons were culled,” he said bitterly. “Because they were truly were a threat to mankind.”

“It belongs to Cenred, Arthur,” Merlin said quietly. “It only acts under his orders.”

“You’re telling me that Cenred can control a dragon?” Arthur said. “No one can control a dragon…”

He thought back to what Gaius had told him.

“No one except a dragonlord.”

Merlin didn’t have to reply to that. His slight intake of breath was answer enough.

“There’s a dragonlord?” Arthur said sharply. “Here? Working with Cenred?”

Merlin’s head bowed.

“No one works with Cenred,” he said tiredly. “They work for him.”

“And so this bastard dragonlord’s the one to blame for setting that monster on my friend?”

Arthur was shaking with anger. It was easier to blame a human than it was to blame a dumb animal; he could almost picture the face of the lowlife that had consigned Leon to death.

Merlin looked stricken.

“It’s not… it’s hard to explain but-”

“There’s nothing hard about it,” Arthur said forcefully. “It just means I have two throats to slit. The dragon and the scumbag who controls it.”

Merlin flinched.

“Did you ever consider that other people might be as much Cenred’s prisoner as you are?” he said in a low voice.

“I don’t care,” Arthur said stubbornly. “I would never yield to a man like Cenred; do his dirty work for him. I’d die first.”

Merlin didn’t speak for a moment, and then a sad smile curved his lips.

“You are braver than most of us, then,” he says. Arthur was unexpectedly struck by guilt. In his anger he had quite forgotten his audience.

“I do not refer to you,” he said awkwardly. “I know that to be a slave is… I do not expect you to lay down your life to defy him.”

“Perhaps I should,” Merlin said, sounding a little choked. “I yielded to him today and look what that wrought for you.”

Arthur shook his head, guilt intensifying. He had not intended to shame Merlin for not fighting back. He had seen enough to know that Merlin was defiant in whatever ways he could be. He had been trapped here with Cenred for years, since he was barely more than a child. It was clear to see his will had been worn down in a deliberate and malicious way.

Arthur reached his hand out in the dark and patted Merlin’s knee for a second, hoping to convey with that touch that he had not meant what he said.

“I hate when he… I hate when he makes me do a spell like that.”

Merlin sounded close to tears and Arthur suddenly realised that perhaps there was someone else here who understood how it felt to have your mind manipulated.

“What does it feel like?” he said impulsively. “When he makes you cast?”

It was too personal a question to ask, and yet Arthur wanted to know, to feel a little less alone than he did right now.

Merlin didn’t answer for a while.

“There was a man in the village I grew up in,” he said at last. “He used to put on marionette shows. He carved them himself out of wood, and hung them on strings, and he’d bring them out every summer. All of the children would go and watch and laugh at the funny things he made them say and do.”

Merlin made a soft noise, halfway between a laugh and a sob.

“I suppose it’s less funny when it’s happening to you.”

Arthur bowed his head. There was no real answer to that.

“What did it feel like when… when I…”

Merlin trailed off, apparently unable to put a name to what had happened between them earlier.

The question was only fair and yet Arthur didn’t want to answer it.

“How do you kill a dragon?” he said instead.

Merlin’s eyes flickered in the candlelight.

“It’s very difficult,” he said eventually. “There was a type of charmed fire that could kill dragons but the spell for it has been lost. Beheading works, if you can get close enough. And…”

“What?”

“Dragons are like any other living creature,” Merlin said quietly. “They can starve to death, or sicken from ill treatment. A weak dragon is easier to kill than a healthy one.”

Arthur thought about what Merlin might be trying to tell him. He cast his mind back to the day of his capture, tried to think beyond the shock of first sight and remember how the dragon actually looked…

It had been thinner, he supposed, than a creature of that size should be. Not that he was an expert but the ancient dragons in Gaius’ bestiaries had always seemed sturdy and thick around the middle – their torsos much bigger than their limbs and tail.

Cenred’s dragon hadn’t been as solid as them. Now that he thought about it, its hide had not been altogether healthy looking. There had been patches where its scales had been partially sloughed off, and its body had no sheen to it; rather it was a dull, muted matte.

“Cenred’s dragon is weak,” Arthur said, sounding it out.

“Cenred does not know how to keep a dragon,” Merlin said. “He neglects it when he does not have a use for it. He doesn’t feed it enough and he keeps it caged in-”

He broke off, as if pained.

“I know you have no respect for Rún but dragons were not made to be confined this way.”

“Do not ask me to feel respect for the beast that killed my friend,” Arthur said coldly.

Merlin flinched.

“It only does what its ordered to do.”

“Then I shall hate the one who orders it,” Arthur said.

Merlin cupped the candle flame with his hands.

“Perhaps that’s fair,” he said and he looked very weary all of a sudden.

Arthur didn’t want to argue anymore.

“What is Cenred like in combat?” he asked, changing the subject.

“He’s a good fighter,” Merlin said simply. “And more than that… his sword was forged in the dragon’s breath. It is an instrument of greater power than any normal sword would be.”

“Oh, so apparently nothing about this will be easy,” Arthur grumbled and he saw Merlin smile a little in the dim light.

“At least you have me, sire,” he said teasingly and Arthur snorted.

But the thought was oddly comforting.

 

 

 

 

Merlin woke up to the sound of snow falling. As if in response for the unseasonably warm weather of late, winter had set in with a vengeance. When he crossed the yard to fetch water, the snowflakes stuck fast to his cheeks and nose, falling thickly all around him. The world had gone white; with every turret on the castle topped with snow and the weak sun reflecting bright off the frosted ground. He had to break a thin layer of ice to get the water pump moving and by the time he returned to his room he was shivering.

Once there, he began to sort through his paltry winter clothes, to see what he could bring for the trip. The fact that such cold had descended on the day of their departure seemed like nothing but a bad omen to Merlin, as if he was in need of any more of those.

A familiar cough at the door nearly startled him out of his skin. Cenred didn’t come to Merlin’s annexe often, except when Merlin had committed some offence too egregious to delay in correcting. So it was with a ripple of tension that Merlin turned around.

“Sire.”

The smile Cenred gave him was disarmingly wide.

“Nearly ready?”

Merlin nodded, reaching for the cloak draped over his bedstead. Enmyria had given it to him last year and it had been threadbare even then, but it was all he had.

“Oh no, no, that won’t do at all.”

“Sire?” Merlin said.

Cenred tutted in an avuncular fashion.

“You’ll freeze to death in that thing. Luckily, I have a gift for you.”

He produced a package from under his arm and proffered it. Merlin accepted it with slightly unsteady hands. He wouldn’t put it past Cenred to play a trick of some kind on him, as punishment for some perceived slight. However, his fingers only met soft fabric when he delved into the wrapping. He shook it loose to reveal an opulent winter cloak, double lined, the collar high and thickly furred.

“A token of my esteem,” Cenred said. “You did well yesterday, little starling.”

Merlin’s fingers closed tight around the fabric. A gift for tearing Arthur’s mind apart.

“Try it on,” Cenred urged and he didn’t wait for Merlin to move; taking the cloak from his hands and wrapping it around Merlin’s shoulders.

The fur was warm against Merlin’s throat. It was richer than any item he had ever owned before; more beautiful by far than the old shirts and rags his mother had stitched together to make cold weather clothing. And yet he would a thousand times rather freeze in Ealdor than live in luxury here.

He mumbled the requisite thank you and Cenred seemed satisfied, squeezing Merlin’s shoulder.

“It suits you,” he said appraisingly. “I forget how fine your features can be when you dress well.”

Merlin went rigid, as he always did when Cenred made a comment of this kind. But the king did not seem inclined to follow it up with any action.

“We shall have you fitted with a whole new wardrobe when we are settled in Camelot,” he promised and then gestured to Merlin’s hastily packed things. “Come along.”

 

The first thing Merlin saw in the courtyard was Arthur. He was blinking a little in the morning light; the bruises on his face still visible. Unlike Merlin, he was not dressed for the weather; someone had found him a rough tunic and breeches and a thin jacket, but it wasn’t nearly enough to protect against the frigid cold. He looked tired, too, and Merlin wondered if he had managed to sleep at all last night. In spite of all this, his spine was ramrod straight and there was still an approximation of a sneer on his face. It gladdened Merlin’s heart a little to see it.

At least they had given him some boots to wear. It was too much for Merlin to hope that they might let the prince ride a horse but Merlin’s stomach still sank when one of the guards began to tie Arthur’s hands to the back of a cart.

Cenred had walked over to them, a smile on his face. He said something and Arthur bit out a retort, his jaw tight. Cenred shrugged in response. His eyes caught Merlin’s and Merlin looked away quickly.

A few moments later, a hand clamped down on his arm and Merlin grimaced.

“Don’t worry about the princeling,” Cenred said, amused. “He’ll enjoy stretching his legs for a bit.”

Merlin gave a sort of sickly smile in return, which seemed to satisfy Cenred.

“You’ll ride with me today,” he declared. “I’ve had them prepare a mount for you.”

Merlin didn’t want to ride at the front with Cenred, no matter how much it was intended to be an honour. He felt constantly uneasy during those brief times he was in favour with the king, never knowing when he might incur Cenred’s wrath again. It was easier to be in disgrace in many ways, at least then he knew what to expect.

Also, he’d be able to stay close to Arthur at the back.

There was no point arguing so Merlin mounted the pure bred, jet black warhorse picked out for him that he personally felt couldn’t hold a candle to the little brown horse he liked to visit in the stables.

It was a long day’s ride. The snow barely let up and the wind bit cold into Merlin’s exposed cheeks. He thought of Arthur, with no gloves or hood to keep the chill at bay, and hoped silently that they would set up camp early.

But the sky was blue-black before they stopped their march and when Merlin dismounted, he turned to see Arthur swaying with exhaustion.

He couldn’t go to him, it was too risky. He hovered as close as he could whilst assisting in setting up the camp. He saw Enmyria incanting the new boundary spell on Arthur’s collar, to keep him in range of the encampment, before she led him away to Cenred’s tent. Merlin’s own didn’t need recasting – the brand would always warn Cenred when Merlin strayed too far. He tested the limits anyway an hour later; walking about fifty paces into the woods before he felt the familiar twinge in his side.

Cenred would have felt the same twinge and would expect Merlin to report back and explain himself. Merlin retraced his steps, ready to tell Cenred he had just been collecting firewood. It was a good excuse to enter Cenred’s tent and check on Arthur anyway.

When he stepped inside, it was a disquieting sight that greeted him. Arthur was kneeling on the floor, hands bound tightly behind his back. The rope tying his hands was fastened to the pole in the middle of the tent. He clearly hadn’t submitted to being bound without a fight as there was a fresh bruise on his temple and his wrists were bloody from struggling.

He looked cold, too, though he was trying not to show it. Merlin wondered if Cenred would give him a blanket for the night, if there was any way Merlin could sneak him one…

“You stare so intensely at the princeling. Should I be jealous?”

Cenred’s voice was more amused than annoyed but Merlin knew it was a fine line. He turned away from Arthur.

“I am curious about Camelot,” he said quickly, which was true at least.

Cenred smiled indulgently.

“I understand. The prince is a curio. Last of a dying empire. The charred embers of the Pendragon line. We must look while we can.”

Arthur snarled, pulling at his restraints. Hoping to divert Cenred’s attention, Merlin stepped between the two of them.

“I was collecting firewood. That’s why…”

He gestured at his hip and Cenred nodded.

“Of course. I suspected nothing else.”

His tone was laced with mirth and it made Merlin uneasy.

“Well. That was all,” Merlin said, making as if to leave.

“Stay,” Cenred said, gesturing to the food laid out on a table beside him. “Eat with me.”

Merlin wanted to do nothing less but at least he’d be able to keep an eye on Arthur here. He nervously took a seat opposite Cenred and accepted the proffered strip of meat.

“We made good progress today despite the snow,” Cenred said. “Our early success bodes well.”

“Yes,” Merlin said, watching Cenred fill a cup of wine for him. He knew there was no way to refuse without incurring his wrath but he was always loath to lower his inhibitions around Cenred.

He compromised by sipping slowly while Cenred talked. As ever, Cenred wanted only to hear himself speak and Merlin was able to get away with remaining mostly silent. He was intensely aware of Arthur’s presence; though he dared not look directly at him for fear of drawing Cenred’s attention.

After perhaps half an hour, Tauren appeared at the door.

“We need your opinion on a scry, sire,” he said gruffly. Cenred stood, looking mildly annoyed.

“Wait here,” he said to Merlin, and left the tent. The flap had barely closed behind him before Merlin was grabbing at some chunks of bread and meat on the table, hurrying to Arthur’s side to hold them out.

“Quick, before he comes back,” he said and then at once he saw the dilemma. Arthur’s hands were tied taut behind him. There was no time to get them free.

“Can I-” he started and found himself unable to finish. It was too strange a thing to do, too intimate. After the day before, Arthur surely wouldn’t want Merlin’s hands anywhere near him.

But Arthur was opening his mouth and his eyes were fixed steadfastly on Merlin’s. Understanding. Trusting.

Very carefully, Merlin picked up a crust of bread and placed it into Arthur’s mouth. He watched as the prince chewed and swallowed, too close to do anything but see, to embrace the oddness of the moment.

When he fed Arthur the third piece of meat, the prince’s lips closed too soon and Merlin felt them brush against his finger as it withdrew. It made him feel hot inside for some reason, a little shiver running down his spine.

If it wasn’t his imagination, Arthur looked slightly wrong-footed as well, his gaze dropping to the floor. He licked his lips to rid them of the last crumbs and Merlin found himself drawn to the motion for some reason he couldn’t quite fathom.

Then there were voices outside the tent and Merlin shot back to his feet, skidding into his chair and shoving the last of the food into his own mouth. He was washing it down with a gulp of wine when Cenred re-entered.

Cenred seemed almost distracted as he sat down again but he looked up when Merlin attempted to bid him goodnight.

“Why not stay here?” he said carelessly. “A bedroll by a dying fire won’t be comfortable on a night like this.”

It was true that it was freezing outside and it was also true that Merlin would rather sleep naked in the snow than share a bed with Cenred.

He mumbled an excuse and Cenred’s gaze sharpened.

“Still not ready?” he said and Merlin’s face heated. “Camelot’s conquering is mere days away. I hope you haven’t forgotten your promise to me.”

Merlin was acutely aware that Arthur was listening to this, and completely desperate that the prince not hear any more. He stayed silent, praying for the moment to pass. For once, his prayers were answered, as Cenred only ran one proprietary hand down Merlin’s side before dismissing him, saying there was much to do tomorrow.

Merlin caught Arthur’s eyes as he walked out. The prince’s gaze was intense and Merlin was suddenly glad of the cold that greeted him beyond the tent, because he was hot all over and he didn’t know why.

 

  

 

 

Arthur shifted uncomfortably. He was tied in the same way he had been the night before, even if the location was different. He didn’t know how far they had travelled that day but he estimated it had been between ten or twelve miles, a little further than they had gone the day before. The weather conditions had been better although Arthur’s extremities had still gone numb in his thin clothing. His chest had been tight since he had been bound up that evening and he suspected that an infection of some kind was coming on.

In the grand scheme of things, a chest chill was the least of his worries. Based on their surroundings (although the thick blanket of snow made everything harder to identify), he was fairly certain they had come from the Forest of Geancy in Essetir. Slowly but surely, they were making their way towards the border with Camelot. He guessed that they would be bearing north to bypass the Ridge of Ascetir and heading through the forest towards the Darkling Woods. Arthur knew the area around the border well. There were villages there, farmers and peasants dotted all around.

He didn’t just have to rely on his own knowledge of maps to know there were people close by. Cenred had left the flap of the tent partially open, perhaps to punish Arthur with the biting wind. It gave him a view of their encampment and then beyond, in the distance, a little village. 

Arthur remembered all too well what Merlin had said. That Cenred would want the dragon to “blaze a trail ahead of him, sending them all scattering in fear.” Arthur had not seen the dragon yet since the march began and it made him nervous. He knew that to a beast of that size, the distance they’d travelled so far was nothing. Cenred was waiting for the opportune moment to summon it and Arthur suspected tonight might be it.

He stayed awake as long as he could, watching. But he was exhausted from two days marching, from the lack of food, from never being given the chance to let his injuries heal. By the time the moon was high in the sky, Arthur’s eyelids drooped. Even the painful position he had been tied in couldn’t stop him from drifting off…

He had been asleep maybe minutes when he heard the first scream. His eyes flew open and for a moment he could see nothing but the flare of lights in the distant village.

Then a shadow passed over the moon and Arthur’s heart clenched.

It was the dragon. And as one horrible revelation follows another, Arthur realised what the distant lights were.

Fire.

He didn’t know how long the dragon’s attack lasted; he had no head to count. Later he only remembered it in fragments. The thick black smoke rising in the air as the huts burned down. The tiny figures running back and forth in panic, stumbling and falling in their haste to escape the horror. The cries and wails that filled the air, like an unstoppable clamour of misery.

When it was finally over, Arthur felt numb. That _thing_ had destroyed a village like it was nothing at all. He could shut his eyes but nothing could erase the image of the dragon swooping down from the sky, as dark and terrible as any creature from a nightmare come to life.

It was too powerful. It would destroy Camelot and they would all be doomed.

He didn’t know how long it was before he heard movement close to the tent. He opened his eyes, ready to scream pure rage at Cenred for what he had wrought, but it was Merlin who slipped through the flap.

He looked pale and exhausted. Dirt smudged his face and his hair was in disarray and he smelt like the air did, smoke and sulphur. Arthur knew instantly that Merlin had witnessed the same thing he had.

“Merlin,” he said and his voice cracked. It was so foolish, he was a prince, a warrior, he shouldn’t give in to despair…

But all hope seemed lost and Arthur couldn’t find that inner core of steel he’d always relied on. He was in grief: for Leon, for Camelot, for all the people who would face this dragon and surely perish.

Merlin dropped to his knees in front of Arthur.

“It killed them,” Arthur heard himself say. “It killed them all.”

His voice was so small he barely recognised it.

Merlin didn’t say anything. He reached out with one shaking hand and thumbed at Arthur’s face, catching a tear Arthur didn’t know had fallen.

“I want to see it dead, Merlin,” Arthur choked out. “I have to- I have to-”

Then his voice deserted him.

Merlin still didn’t speak. He simply lifted his hand and began to card it through Arthur’s hair.

He didn’t stop stroking until Arthur finally gave into his exhaustion. His last conscious thought was that he would find a way to kill that dragon. Even if he had to give up his own life. He would find a way.

  

 

It was nearly dawn by the time Merlin left Cenred’s tent and the snow was coming down soft and light, melting the second it touched his skin.

He leaned against the tent pole, hand pressed hard against his mouth to muffle his sobs. He felt like he could fall apart; like he would crumble if someone touched him the wrong way.

It took a long time to become aware he was being watched.

“Poor little starling,” Cenred crooned, emerging from the shadows behind the tent. “He doesn’t know what you are, does he? Your precious princeling.”

Merlin scrubbed hard at the tears on his face, turning away from his master.

“He doesn’t know what you are,” Cenred repeated, his face a half-mask in the moonlight.

He reached out to grip Merlin’s wrist with one cold hand.

“Does he?”

Suddenly Merlin was pulled flush against his body, his back to Cenred’s chest. He struggled, but Cenred only held him closer, leaning in to press his lips to Merlin’s ear.

“Little dragon,” he whispered and all the fight left Merlin’s body.

He slumped against Cenred and they stood like that, snow settling around them. A new day was beginning and the sky was pinkening in the distance, marred only by the drifts of smoke still rising from the ruined village.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: branding, imprisonment, verbal sexual harassment, suicide attempt by starvation, brief whipping scene. Abuse is a general tag of this fic but this chapter goes into more detail and contains both physical and emotional abuse.

Merlin’s earliest memory was knocking over a jug of water with his tail.

His mother was full of stories about the havoc he had caused as a child.

“I hoped you wouldn’t learn to fly until you were at least three or four but no, it was barely six months after you took your first step that I turned around to find you hovering ten inches above the bed. I don’t know who was more surprised, you or me.”

“What happened next?” Merlin always asked, even though he’d heard the story a dozen times.

“You were so shocked you changed forms in mid-air. You thumped down on the bed and started bawling.”

“I did not!”

“You did,” his mother would say, a gleam in her eyes. “Then I comforted you for ten minutes and you decided you wanted to try again. That was the last moment of peace I ever had in this house.”

His mother always reached out to tickle his stomach or ruffle his hair at that point, to show she didn’t mean it. It wasn’t until Merlin was older that he wondered if there was more truth in his mother’s words than he had ever gleaned. It was hard enough to raise a child all alone, but a child that could change into a flying, fire-breathing dragon at any point? He didn’t know how his mother had done it.

He asked her once, aged eleven and tearful after being tripped up by some of the older boys.

“They said there’s something wrong with me!”

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” his mother said patiently, dabbing at his scraped knee. “They say that because they don’t know any better.”

“Mum, they can tell that I’m a… I’m a…”

“A what?”

“A monster!” Merlin burst out and his mother’s face dropped.

“You are _not_ a monster. Never, ever say that, Merlin.”

“Then what am I?” Merlin said miserably. “It’s not normal to have magic. It’s not normal to… to _change_ like I do.”

“You are special,” his mother said, coming to sit by him on the bed. “You have something that those boys don’t have; that perhaps no other little boy has.”

“Not little,” Merlin said mulishly and his mother smiled.

“Alright, not little at all. But you should be proud of who you are, Merlin. Being different is not a bad thing.”

He had heard it before and he would hear it again and most days Merlin believed it. But sometimes…

“Do you ever wish-”

The words stuck on his tongue but he forced them out.

“Do you ever wish you’d had a normal son?”

His mother was silent for a moment and Merlin knew she was thinking what to say, because she’d never been anything less than honest with him before.

“I wish I didn’t have to tell you to hide parts of yourself. I wish people were less ignorant about things they don’t understand. And I wish I could keep you safe from those people forever.”

She tipped his chin up to meet her gaze.

“But no. I’ve never wished you were like other boys. You’re a gift to me, Merlin. I could never want you any other way. Do you believe me?”

He believed her but at the same time she was his mother. He loved her but he longed for someone outside their little home to accept him in the same way. 

It was barely three months later that Will found out. It was an accident; they’d been climbing trees out in the forest and Will fell from the highest branch, tumbling faster than Merlin could reach out and grab him. He changed forms on instinct, swooping down to catch Will on his back just before he hit the ground. Merlin switched back instantly, terrified that his friend would run screaming, but Will had been thrilled beyond measure. He asked Merlin to fly him all around the clearing and spent the whole time whooping with excitement.

Merlin’s mother had been tight lipped when he told her that night and she seemed on edge for months after. Merlin had little appreciation of her fear at the time, when he could only think about delighted he was to share his secret with his friend. Luckily Will never told another soul and in time Merlin’s mother relaxed a little.

Merlin, meanwhile, was pleased as could be. He finally felt at ease with his dragon self; bolstered by the admiration Will expressed every time he changed forms. They spent long days playing out in the forest, Merlin flying about or practising small magic tricks and Will egging him on. They were far enough from prying eyes to get away with a surprising amount and Merlin watched his powers grow and grow the more he let them have free rein.

Merlin would wander home at the end of those long days, tired and content, and tell his mother what he had learned while they ate their supper. Then she would have him practise his reading and writing a bit before tucking him into bed with a story; usually one from her travels as a young woman, or the time she’d spent working as a healer. If he still couldn’t sleep, she would sing him a song. Merlin’s favourite was a lullaby his father had taught her. She said his father used to sing it to her stomach and sometimes Merlin would kick along inside, and they would laugh about him trying to join in.

And so, Merlin was happy. He had a mother who loved him, a boisterous best friend, and a gift most people could only dream of. Life wasn’t always easy, but Merlin grew up sheltered from the worst of it.

Then the sorcerers came.

It was the summer of Merlin’s fifteenth year and he had been helping his mother in the fields. It had been a long, hot day and they were just wearily pushing open the door to their house when two men emerged, as if from nowhere.

Merlin was instantly curious. Ealdor didn’t get nearly enough visitors and he cherished every one that came by. He hoped they had some good stories to tell. Will liked the ones about sword fights and pirates but Merlin much preferred the tales of mystical creatures in far off lands. It mattered little if they were true; it was all about the skill of the storyteller.

These men didn’t look like the bards who had passed through before, however. There was something far too intent and serious in their expressions. They were both dressed in dark cloaks, one green and one blue. One man was fair skinned with a brown beard and the other man was dark skinned with a black beard. It was the latter man who spoke first.

“Pardon me, but are you Hunith of Ealdor? Mother to Merlin?”

Merlin was about to affirm this fact eagerly but his mother gripped his arm tight.

“Who’s asking?”

Her tone was colder than one he’d ever heard her use before. The man didn’t seem offended though, he smiled in response.

“My name is Myror and this is Tauren. We have travelled here at the request of our master and we would like to talk to you about your son.”

His mother’s jaw tightened.

“What of him?”

“Forgive me,” Myror said delicately. “But I believe this is a conversation you might prefer to have in private. It concerns your son’s… unique abilities.”

Merlin hadn’t been frightened before but he was now, watching the way the colour left his mother’s face. Lips drawn thin, she stood back from the door, silently allowing them entrance.

The two men looked out of place in their cramped hut, too large and too strange. Merlin knew it was a mark of his mother’s distrust that she didn’t offer them so much as a cup of water or a seat to sit on.

“Say your piece,” she said brusquely.

Myror made a short bow.

“Time is short so I will be to the point. We are sorcerers, who work for a master in Essetir. We have scryed your son’s presence using a ritual to reveal sources of magical power. It is our belief that he possesses magic far beyond the reach of an average sorcerer.”

Merlin felt his mother pull him a little closer to her. He couldn’t quite process what the man was saying, but the way Tauren was watching him made Merlin shiver.

“Our master in interested in bringing your son to work for us – to help him train his magic and reach his full potential. An apprentice, of sorts.”

His mother’s hands tightened around Merlin.

“I’m afraid we’re not interested.”

“It is difficult to imagine parting with a dear one,” Myror said smoothly. “But you will be well compensated for your sacrifice. You can rest secure in the knowledge that your son is going on to great things.”

“I’m sorry, but the answer is no.”

His mother’s tone brooked no arguments. And yet Merlin was afraid. These men knew he had magic. Who might they tell? Would they have him arrested in revenge? Threaten him with exposure if he didn’t take up their offer?

He waited with bated breath for Myror’s next words. But the man only sighed a little and bowed again.

“Very well. I can see that you are resolute. We apologise for intruding.”

He nodded at both of them and gestured to Tauren, who was still yet to say a single word. With one final bow, they opened the door and stepped back out into the village.

The silence after the door banged shut was deafening. Merlin turned towards his mother to see her staring into space, her hands trembling a little.

“Mum. They’ve gone. They’ve gone, Mum.”

She didn’t say anything, just hugged him tight, for a good long minute.

“How did they find me?” he said, when she finally released him. He knew what scrying was but he’d never heard of such a ritual. Not that his mother could teach him much of magic, as she freely admitted.

“I didn’t know such a ritual was possible,” she said, eyes troubled. “Perhaps I…”

She looked at Merlin and it seemed like she came to some kind of decision; one that was not easy to make but the only one she could see in front of her.

“I was once friends with a man named Gaius. I will write to him tomorrow.”

“To find out about the ritual?”

“And perhaps a little more than that.”

His mother smiled but her eyes seemed so sad.

“It may be time we looked for a change of scenery.”

Merlin didn’t know what that meant and somehow he didn’t want to ask. He went to open the door instead and looked out to watch the two men disappear beyond the hill and out of sight. He couldn’t shake the sense of profound unease lodged in his chest.

Still, they had accepted her refusal, and they had left. They had made no threats or promises to return. Merlin had to hope that was an end to it.

It took him a long time to fall asleep that night and he was sure his mother was lying awake as well, though they did not speak.

When he awoke again it was several hours later and he was instantly on guard. There was a strange prickle going through his body; one he could only associate with the feeling spell casting usually gave him. But it was an alien sensation and it took him several seconds to draw the only likely conclusion.

Someone else was casting magic on him.

He sat up in bed immediately, opening his mouth to cry out. But no sound came. For a few seconds he could only gasp around air. Then an arm closed around his chest and pulled him out of bed.

Merlin thrashed, crying out with soundless shout. He clawed at the arm as it dragged him up but he could not dislodge his attacker. His feet were scrabbling on the floor, trying to get purchase enough to kick backwards but his attacker simply lifted him up in the air.

“Now,” said a deep voice by his ear and a figure emerged from the darkness by the door, swathed in a black hooded cloak.

It was Tauren and he held a stoppered vial aloft. Merlin twisted desperately, knowing now that it was Myror who held him and that the two of them had clearly decided not to take no for an answer. He had a sinking feeling that if they got the contents of that vial down his throat, it would likely end very badly for him. 

He couldn’t think of a spell that would be any help, he had little experience in using magic against another person. But there was one thing he could do.

He switched. Only part of the way – his fully grown dragon self was so big it would demolish the cottage now. But he let his talons elongate, let his jaw grow out until he could feel the fire at the back of his throat, and shot a jet of flame out in warning.

Myror jerked backwards, dropping him. Merlin darted forward, blindly slashing out at Tauren and catching him below the eye. He felt a hand on his back and turned in an instant, easily pinning Myror to the wall. He didn’t want to kill him but he had to make him see, make them both see that he wasn’t going anywhere with them…

He was close enough to Myror’s face to breathe smoke into his wide, disbelieving eyes.

“I’ll kill your mother,” Tauren said behind them.

Merlin froze, his talon an inch away from Myror’s heart.

He turned, slowly, and Tauren was stood above his mother’s sleeping body, knife raised high.

Merlin took it all in; the exact distance from where he was, whether he could whip his tail fast enough, how he could target a blast of flame to hit only Tauren…

Tauren moved his knife down to his mother’s throat.

“Switch back,” he said. “Now.”

Merlin switched. All the fight drained out of him like water through a sieve. He’d submit to anything to keep his mother safe.

“Bring him,” Tauren said and Merlin felt hands close around his arms again, dragging him across the room.

Tauren passed the vial to Myror, the knife still hovering in his other hand.

“Drink it,” he said and Merlin opened his mouth. The spell they had put on him was keeping him mute and he could only silently repeat the words he so desperately wanted to say.

_Please don’t hurt her, please don’t hurt her, please don’t hurt her._

The liquid in the vial tasted bitter and Merlin’s vision began to blur barely seconds after he’d swallowed it down. He kept his eyes on his mother, her soft sleeping face, the cold metal hovering above her pale throat. Myror caught him as his legs gave way and with the last ounce of strength in his body, he turned his eyes to Tauren in a wordless plea.

_Please don’t hurt her._

Tauren tucked the knife back into his cloak. Merlin let the darkness take him.

 

 

 

 

When he woke again his head was thick and hazy, and it took him several seconds to remember what had happened. When he did he tried instantly to move, and found his hands and feet bound fast behind him. There was a thick cloth gag in his mouth and a blanket was covering his whole body, obstructing his view. He was being moved, he could feel it; the rickety motion suggesting he was on a wooden cart of some kind. He reached out with a spell, intending to break his bonds, but nothing happened. He could feel his magic thrumming under his skin; but it was slow and sluggish and beyond his command. It was the work of the potion in the vial, he knew it. It had not worn off yet and until it did, Merlin was helpless.

He tested his magic periodically over the next hour but he could raise no more than a faint spark by the time the cart stopped. The blanket was torn away and light flooded in; the shock making Merlin reflexively reach for a spell. But none was forthcoming and instead he looked up to see Myror’s impassive face.

“He’s awake,” he said briefly and Tauren walked into Merlin’s eye line.

Merlin made a noise of protest behind his gag, or perhaps it was a noise of fear.

“Shut up,” Tauren said irritably. “Lest I decide to pay you back for this.”

He gestured to the long scab running down the side of his face, the work of Merlin’s claw. Any other time Merlin might have felt triumphant but right now he was too afraid.

Tauren stalked away and Myror sighed.

“Travel puts him in a bad mood,” he said, more to himself than anything. He reached down and picked Merlin up, easily lifting him in a bridal hold as though Merlin weighed nothing at all. Merlin began to struggle and squirm but Myror hardly seemed to notice, simply tightening his grip as he walked. Merlin subsided after a few minutes, too tired to go on. He craned his neck to look around instead but all he could see were trees. They were in a forest, to be sure, but it could have been a forest anywhere. He might not even be in Essetir anymore. How would his mother ever find him?

Thinking of his mother made him afraid all over again. He saw Tauren put away the knife but then he had passed out. What if they had decided to kill her anyway, to tie up loose ends?

Terror weighed heavy on him and he pushed at the gag with his tongue, rubbing the side of his cheek against Myror’s rough tunic in the hope of dislodging it. He managed to move it an inch towards his chin and it was enough to free his mouth to speak.

“My mother-” he gasped out and Myror looked down in surprise. He muttered a quick spell and the gag flew back into place, even tighter than before. Merlin could only stare up at him with pleading eyes; hoping to find a shred of decency in the man who’d kidnapped him.

Myror didn’t say anything for a long moment and then he sighed.

“We left her alive and unharmed, I give you my word. But understand this. You will never see her again. You had best make your peace with that now.”

The latter words that Myror spoke would haunt Merlin in days to come but in that moment he could only feel a sense of all-encompassing relief. His mother was alive. He would escape. He would find his way back to her.

He was so lost in thought for the next few minutes that he barely noticed Myror stopping until there was a bright flash beside them. He turned to see Tauren drawing a sort of square in the air with a trail of golden light, muttering the words of a spell as he did so. Then he raised both hands and pushed forward and the square…

Merlin couldn’t quite make sense of what he was seeing. The square was now a picture showing a city in the near distance. Except it wasn’t a picture, it was- it was-

A portal. Or a door to be more accurate because Tauren stepped through it and suddenly he was standing on the other side. Myror carried Merlin forward and now the forest was behind them. If Merlin hadn’t been gagged he would have gasped aloud at what he saw. Where there had only been trees before, there was now a large expanse of cobbled stone before them. A wooden structure resembling a stable stood to the left; to the right, a pathway that led off to some small huts in the distance and what looked like market stalls beyond. In between the two…

There was a castle.

It was larger and grander than anything Merlin had seen before, with more turrets and towers than Merlin could count; the stone façade dark and striking against the early morning sky.

It whispered magic to him and Merlin wondered how long this place had been hidden in the forest, and how many people knew of it. It was a whole citadel unto itself and he wondered if it was for people of magic alone. Myror had said they lived in a place where Merlin could be amongst his own kind…

But it didn’t matter if the citadel was a magical paradise. Merlin wasn’t staying here, not without his mother. Escaping would be hard; he assumed there would be a ritual of some kind required for reaching the woods again. Still, his magic had never failed him before. Once it came back Merlin would surely think of something.

He tried to keep that resolve strong inside him, to quell the dread that had settled in his stomach.

There were only one or two people in the courtyard as Myror carried him across but Merlin still tried to study their faces for a hint of what kind of place this was. But they were dressed much like the common folk in any city and their expressions gave nothing away.

Merlin was taken into the castle and down several long passages of stone. Tauren was still ahead and he seemed to be leading them somewhere specific. Merlin could only assume they were going to meet the mysterious ‘master’ that Myror had told his mother about.

After a minute of walking, they reached a grand double door, guarded by two men. Tauren nodded at both and they stood aside, allowing all three to enter the room.

For a moment Merlin’s eyes could only see the candles floating in the air, the bright lights searing his eyes as they crossed the threshold into what was large enough to be a Great Hall of some kind. He was so blinded by the flames that he barely noticed Myror’s grip loosening until the sorcerer intoned, “Your majesty,” and let Merlin drop unceremoniously to the floor.

Merlin landed painfully on his front and could only wheeze for a few seconds, the breath knocked out of him. When he was able to take in air again he rolled over, looking upwards.

There was a man stood above him. He was dressed in all black and he had dark eyes, and a cruel red slash for a mouth. He was gazing down with a naked hunger in his expression and it chilled Merlin’s blood.

“I am King Cenred,” he said. “And I am pleased to meet the dragon boy at last.”

King Cenred? Merlin had never heard of him. He made a slight muffled noise and Cenred tutted.

“Ungag our guest, Tauren. Help him up.”

None too gently, Tauren walked forward to pull Merlin up to his knees where he balanced awkwardly, hands still tied. Almost as an afterthought, Tauren ripped the cloth from his mouth and Merlin coughed, greedily sucking in a lungful of air.

“There now,” Cenred said, almost politely. “Would you like some water?”

Merlin shook his head, not fool enough to drink anything they gave him. He reached for his magic again and felt it tingle, but only weakly. It wasn’t strong enough to help him escape yet.

“Why am I here?” he said hoarsely, seeing no point in niceties. This man knew about his magic, knew about his abilities. The time for feigning ignorance was over.

“For the same reason Myror and Tauren told you,” Cenred said readily. “You have certain gifts and we want to help you use those gifts. To train you in magic and give you the opportunity for an education you would be denied elsewhere.”

“So you kidnapped me?” Merlin spat, enraged by Cenred’s reasonable tone. These men were not reasonable. They wouldn’t have held a knife to his mother if they were.

Cenred shrugged.

“You didn’t understand what we were offering you. I thought it might be easier to show you.”

“I did understand. I said no.”

Cenred shook his head.

“Poor boy. You’ve lived in secrecy for so long that you can’t imagine any other way to be. I’m offering you a chance to be free. A chance to access your full potential.”

“Out of the goodness of your heart?” Merlin snarled. The fear in his chest was making way for anger. Some deluded sorcerer clan had captured him because they couldn’t take no for an answer and now they were trying to convince him it was all for his benefit?

Cenred smiled.

“Everything comes at a price. For training and educating you in this way, I would expect something back.”

“What?”

“A promise to use your powers in my service and only in my service.”

Merlin started to laugh. He couldn’t help himself. He was tired and cold, his wrists were numb from being bound, his head ached, and his magic was barely a glimmer under his skin. And now some madman was asking him for total loyalty not ten minutes after they’d met. It was absurd.

“No,” he said, pulling himself back from the brink of hysteria. “I don’t want to be trained and I don’t want to be educated. My magic is my own.”

A shadow passed over Cenred’s face.

“Perhaps I should have been clearer,” he said. “I’m not offering you a choice.”

Merlin’s heart started to thump in his chest.

“You can’t control my magic.”

“I’m controlling it right now, am I not?” Cenred asked. “With Myror’s little potion.”

“I can’t use it, true,” Merlin said, willing his voice not to shake. “But you can’t use it either.”

Cenred looked thoughtful.

“It may not be practical in the long run, I concede,” he said at last. “But it is not the only method of control I possess, little one.”

“My name is Merlin,” Merlin said through gritted teeth.

“Merlin. Mer-lin.”

Cenred rolled the name around his tongue.

“Like the falcon? How pretty.”

He looked down at Merlin, contemplative for a moment.

“My father used to keep falcons. He said there was an art to training them. That to truly connect with the bird, you must first respect them. Let them come to you, give them their freedom, earn their trust piece by piece.”

He crouched down next to Merlin, so they were eye to eye.

“He gave me a falcon for my sixteenth birthday. It was a thing of beauty. Proud, wild, powerful. I took it out to train the very next day and the first thing that falcon did was slash my arm with its talons. I looked that bird in its animal eye and I remembered my father’s words, about what it means to respect another living creature. And do you know what I did, Merlin?”

Cenred’s eyes were boring into his.

“I snapped that falcon’s neck.”

He made a sudden move forward and Merlin flinched back violently, heart pounding.

“I am not my father and I am not a patient man,” Cenred said, slowly and precisely. “You will bend to my will or you will know suffering like you’ve never known. And the quick release of a snapped neck will not be granted to you.”

Merlin’s blood was roaring in his ears. Every inch of his body was taut with terror.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, Cenred smiled.

“But it doesn’t have to come to that. Be good and I’ll take care of you. Work hard for me and I’ll see you rewarded.”

He stood, ruffling Merlin’s hair on the way.

“You must be tired. I’ll give you some time to think.”

He snapped his fingers and a guard came forward, pulling Merlin to his feet. His legs were numb with fear and he stumbled a little. Cenred righted him with a hand to his shoulder. Then to Merlin’s horror, he moved to caress Merlin’s chin, turning his face this way and that.

“You’re too delicate to be a falcon,” he said at last and his tone was tinged with amusement. “I think I’ll call you little starling.”

“My name is Merlin,” Merlin said and his voice was no louder than a whisper.

Cenred laughed softly.

“Take him away.”

 

 

 

 

Four weeks after his first meeting with Cenred, Merlin was beaten to within an inch of his life.

It happened after a training session in which Merlin had refused for the twenty-fifth day in a row to demonstrate his magic.

It was the first real punishment for his month long refusal to cooperate. Not that being held prisoner wasn’t punishment enough. That first night Merlin had been taken to a small cell which was to become his home – with nothing but a straw bed and a stack of dusty spell books inside. Two thick iron cuffs had been locked onto his wrists and he was soon to make the unpleasant discovery that even when the potion from the vial wore off, his magic was still lost to him. The cuffs kept it locked within; he could feel it as keenly as ever but he could do nothing with it. And he had no ability to change forms at all.

It was the first time in his life Merlin had been separated from his magic and he hated it more than he could possibly say. He felt like a shadow of himself, cut off from the very thing that made him who he was. He bitterly regretted all the times he’d wished as a child to be normal and magic-free. The reality of it was almost unbearable.

Also unbearable was the wait for Cenred to return. Those first few days he saw no one but the guards who came in to bring him twice daily meals of stale bread and water. The boredom and loneliness drove him to peruse the books but he was quickly repulsed. They were books of battle magic and violence – with spells to maim and torture enemies, enchantments to sicken livestock and curse townsfolk en masse.

To Merlin, who’d never so much as shoved back at a bully in Ealdor, they were frightening and sickening in equal measure. Once he had pushed them aside there was nothing left to do but think. His thoughts mainly drifted to his mother; he missed her with a longing that was painful. What did she think had happened to him? Would she be searching for him right now? His heart ached to image her suffering, on a fruitless quest to find him. He hoped Will was taking care of her until he could make his way back home.

When his thoughts weren’t on his mother, they were on Cenred. He didn’t know exactly what the man wanted with his magic but the contents of the spell books gave him a good idea. Added to that was the fact that Cenred knew about his dragon self. That could bode nothing good. The other dragons died out due to the greed and selfishness of humans looking to use their power. If Cenred saw Merlin as a weapon…

It didn’t bear thinking about. Merlin spent those lonely days in the cell alternating between misery and horror. His magic whined under his skin, restless, but it couldn’t break free of the cuffs. Merlin could only hope that when Cenred finally saw fit to remove them, his magic would be ready to help him escape.

On the fourth day of his captivity, the guards came to get him. They escorted him to what appeared to be the servants’ quarters and he was told to wash and change his clothes. He was loath to undress in front of strangers but he did want to clean the dirt and grime from his body, to feel a little less like a prisoner. So he shielded himself as best he could and accepted the new clothes given to him – black breeches and a simple dark blue tunic with a silver rune embroidered on the front that he took to be Cenred’s crest. He tried to hold onto his own clothes, the clothes that his mother had made him, but they were taken from him. He presumed they would be thrown away or burnt and he mourned to think of a piece of Ealdor being destroyed. (It was years later when he would come across the clothes again, clean and neatly folded in Cenred’s armoire, and he would hold them up against his body and weep to remember how small and frightened he had once been, how frightened he was still.)

He was led out through the servant’s entrance and found himself blinking in the sunlight, his eyes unaccustomed to so much brightness after the dark of his cell. The guards took him to a field just beyond the courtyard, which was littered with objects like large rocks or straw figures mounted on wooden stands.

Three people were standing at one end. Cenred was not one of them. Tauren and Myror were, however, and the third was a woman, with braided blonde hair and a steely gaze. He didn’t find out until later that her name was Enmyria for she never introduced herself, or even spoke at all to him that entire first day.

It was Tauren who spoke. Telling Merlin that this was the training field and he would be coming here daily to practice his magic. That he would learn spells that were of use in battle and some days he would train as his dragon self; learning to take passengers on his back, to breathe fire at targets, to wield his claws to strike down enemies.

Legs shaking but voice firm, Merlin said no.

Tauren hit him across the face. He raised his arm again but the woman stayed his hand.

“Cenred will teach him to obey,” she said flatly. “We’re here to teach him magic.”

Tauren snarled but Myror nodded.

“Then let’s teach. Defensive strategy first.”

Merlin’s hopes of having the cuffs removed were crushed. Instead the next week was spent studying battle formations and spell books, with no practical side involved. It was clear that until he agreed to obey, he would not be getting his magic back.

He did not see Cenred again until the end of the first week. Merlin had spent that time mostly compliant, barring his daily refusal to train his magic. He nodded along to what the sorcerers taught him and he went quietly with the guards back to his cell at the end of the day. He hoped to lull them into a false sense of security, that they might neglect to watch him at one crucial point and he could slip away somehow.

That wasn’t the whole of it, however. Tauren scared him and he was always ready to dish out a cuff or a slap if he thought Merlin wasn’t paying attention. Merlin could tell he wanted to do worse than that and the look in Tauren’s eyes sometimes made him shiver. Staying submissive was safer. Beyond the odd bully in Ealdor, Merlin was not used to being hit and despite hating himself for being a coward; he tried his best not to displease Tauren if at all possible.

Cenred scared him more than Tauren did, though.

He was studying a book on battle formations one morning when a shadow fell across the page.

“How’s he doing?” Cenred said, voice relaxed. Myror raised one elegant eyebrow but said nothing. Enmyria looked away. Tauren grunted.

“He’s thick as two short sticks and nearly as mute.”

Cenred laughed.

“Come now, Tauren. The boy’s under a lot of strain. He’s still settling in to his new home.”

He patted Merlin’s head, ignoring how Merlin cringed away.

“We’ll give him a bit longer to adjust, mm?”

With that he was gone. Merlin stared at the ground a while longer, trying to control his breathing.

_You will bend to my will or you will know suffering like you’ve never known._

What happened when Cenred decided he’d had enough time to adjust? What would he do to Merlin then?

The answer came three weeks later. Tauren had started off the training session as he always did, by telling Merlin today was the day he would give over his magic.

Merlin said no, as usual.

Only this time, Cenred had been there. And when he heard Merlin’s reply, he sighed deeply.

“It’s been a month, little starling,” he said, tone reproving. “I believe I’ve given you ample chance to settle in. It’s time for you to repay my kindness.”

Merlin swallowed, his mouth dry.

“I won’t train my magic for violence,” he said shakily. “I don’t want to be your weapon.”

“But you don’t have a choice, do you?” Cenred said evenly. “We’ve been through this before.”

Merlin bit his lip as the man approached but he stood his ground. He didn’t want to learn spells to hurt other people. What would his mother think of him then?

“You don’t have a choice,” Cenred repeated and Merlin could see the beginning of frustration in his eyes. They had reached an impasse. Merlin couldn’t get his magic back until he agreed to use it for Cenred but equally Cenred couldn’t access Merlin’s power without his permission.

He shook his head and Cenred studied his face, as if discerning whether Merlin was bluffing. He seemed to decide not, if the minute curl of his lip was anything to go by.

“Training is cancelled,” he called out, eyes still on Merlin’s face. “It appears I have a lesson of my own to teach today.”

Merlin tried not to panic as Cenred took him by the arm and began pulling him along, but his chest was tight with anxiety. The two guards who always escorted Merlin were close behind and it took him a moment to realise they were headed back to his cell.

Once there Cenred pushed him inside and fixed him with a stare.

“This gives me no pleasure, little starling,” he said ruefully. “But you have to learn to obey.”

Merlin tensed, his heart skittering in his chest.

Cenred shook his head one last time and then stepped from the cell. Merlin listened, slightly puzzled, as his footsteps retreated down the corridor.

And then the two guards entered.

Merlin didn’t remember much after the third punch, and perhaps that was for the best.

 

 

 

 

He was barely conscious for two days. He was vaguely aware of someone feeding water to him, maybe twice a day, but otherwise he was left completely alone. Just like when he first arrived, only this time he was insensible with pain.

On the third day he woke up to find bandages in the corner of the cell, along with a small pot of salve and a cup of herb tea. There was also a bowl of water and a small cloth. It seemed he was being allowed to tend to his wounds.

Merlin didn’t want to do that. He wanted to lie still on his side until the pain went away, until he woke from this nightmare and found himself back in his bed in Ealdor, his mother calling him for breakfast.

It took an hour to make himself move. Painstakingly, he dragged himself over to the pile of supplies and began to take stock of his injuries.

The swelling in his right eye had gone down far enough to see out of now. There was nothing to be done about that in lieu of a cold compress. The back of his head had stopped bleeding on the first day but when he pressed a tentative finger to it, the area was matted and sticky with blood. It would need to be cleaned. Same for the cuts on his arm and shoulder, as well as the scrapes on his knees and elbows.

The ribs were a problem. He thought they might be broken but he didn’t know what to do if they were. He could breathe at least, although it hurt, but he was worried they might heal wrong.

He knew his wrist was broken. He was trying not to look at it, unable to quell the rising panic he felt every time he saw how twisted and swollen it was around the cuff below.

A man in Ealdor had his wrist crushed by a horse. He couldn’t afford a healer so it stayed mangled and he lost the use of his hand forever. Would that happen to Merlin?

He couldn’t help but sob a little as he pulled himself to sit up; partly from the pain and partly from the fear of permanent damage. Having only one good hand made it hard to clean his wounds and bandaging one handed proved impossible. He swallowed the herb tea and felt his breathing ease slightly but it did little for the pain still throbbing through him.

Cenred found him like that, slumped against the wall and crying quietly, trying to wrap a bandage around his swollen wrist.

“Dear me, little starling,” he said, voice sympathetic. “You are in a state.”

Merlin flinched away violently at the sound of his voice, curling into himself and hiding his face in his hand.

“Please,” he whimpered, ready to beg rather than take any more pain, ready to cringe and grovel at Cenred’s feet if only he wouldn’t be hurt anymore.

  

 

 “It’s alright,” Cenred said kindly. “I’m not here to punish you.”

He nudged at the pot of cream with one booted toe.

“You’re not doing a very good job, are you?”

“Sorry,” Merlin said instantly. “Sorry, I’m sorry. I’m sorry-”

“Hush,” Cenred said soothingly. “I’m not angry. I should have known you’d need some help.”

He leaned out of the cell and called to an unseen guard.

“Fetch Edwin.”

They waited in silence for Edwin to come, Cenred idly running the bandages through his fingers and Merlin slumping as small as possible against the wall, trying his best to become invisible.

Edwin was a tall man with blond curly hair and a tight pinched mouth. His eyes flickered rather disparagingly over Merlin as he entered the cell.

“This is the court physician,” Cenred said. “He’s going to examine you.”

Merlin shied away as Edwin crouched beside him but the man didn’t seem to notice, his gaze sweeping across Merlin’s body with clinical detachment.

“Head forward,” he said abruptly and pushed back the hair around Merlin’s head wound, prodding it with a none-too-gentle finger.

“Not life threatening,” he said briefly and without warning tugged Merlin’s tunic upwards. Merlin gasped and tried to pull away but Edwin held him in place, hands massaging his abdomen.

“No internal haemorrhage. Three cracked ribs.”

He grabbed Merlin’s wrist and began to palpate it. Merlin screamed in pain, trying to snatch it back but Edwin held fast.

“Broken wrist,” Edwin said dispassionately. “That’s about it.”

He leaned back on his heels and looked at Cenred, as if waiting for a sign. Cenred made a little humming noise.

“I know you’re in pain,” he said gently. “And Edwin can help you with that. So which would you prefer, little starling? Your ribs healed or your wrist healed?”

“Wrist,” Merlin said instantly. He could live with the ache in his ribs, even live with them never being quite right again. But he needed his hand.

“Very well,” Cenred said and nodded at Edwin. Edwin took Merlin’s wrist in his hand again and this time Merlin bore the pain, biting down hard on his lip. He didn’t want Cenred to change his mind.

Edwin poked a little at the joint and nodded as if satisfied. He muttered a few words, eyes glowing gold, and Merlin felt a sharp cold jolt in his arm, like it had been hit with a shaft of ice. Then, he physically felt the bones in his wrist shift slightly and he couldn’t suppress his shout, but it was over in a second. Even before he looked, he knew it was healed. It was still bruised and discoloured, still swollen around the iron cuff, but he could move it again.  The bones were straight.

“Thank you,” he sobbed out and Cenred nodded.

“Leave us,” he said to Edwin and the man got to his feet. Cenred waited until he was gone before kneeling down next to Merlin, reaching one hand out to pat his head.

“I’m sorry that it came to this. But you had to know that there would be consequences for your refusal.”

He gestured in the air and Merlin flinched instinctively. Any minute now Cenred would ask again about his magic and Merlin would have to say no and then… and then he would be hurt again. Worse than before, though he could barely imagine such a thing.

“Why make it so hard on yourself?” Cenred mused. “I want to help you, do you understand that? You could learn so much here. And yet…”

Merlin felt hot tears begin to slide down his face. He wasn’t ready for the pain; he didn’t think he could bear it again.

Cenred sighed.

“If I asked again now, would your answer have changed?”

 “I can’t,” Merlin wept, the dam breaking. “I can’t, I can’t, I don’t know how-”

“Alright, alright. Quiet now, little one.”

Cenred stroked his hair.

“I pushed you too far. I see that now. You’re not able to make this choice.”

He gave Merlin’s hair one last pat and then stood.

“Rest. I will make alternative arrangements.”

Merlin was too exhausted to wonder what Cenred meant. He could only feel a vague sense of gratitude that no more pain would be forthcoming. When Cenred’s steps finally disappeared down the corridor, Merlin took in a shaky breath of relief. He swallowed the tincture left for him and then crawled into the corner of the cell, hugging his aching stomach until sleep took him.

 

 

 

 

He was left to recover for over a week. No one came to take him to training and he did not see Cenred again at any point. A little more medicine was brought down and Merlin did his best to take care of his remaining injuries.

It was late at night when they came for him. Merlin hadn’t been asleep, but the footsteps still made him jump, echoing in the still air.

They weren’t the same two guards that had beaten him. Of that he was glad.

“Where are we going?” he said. He’d never been taken from his cell in the night before.

The guards didn’t answer.

When they shoved him through a little wooden door down a deserted side corridor, Merlin was no longer sure where he was. They were above the dungeons but still somewhere in the belly of the castle. The room inside was curiously ambiguous; there were some furnishings around – a crackling fire, a chair or two, and a thick wooden wheel on a stand – but there were also chalk markings on the stone floor that appeared to be runes of some kind.

Myror, Tauren, and Enmyria were all stood in the corner while Cenred was studying the runes on the floor. He looked up as Merlin entered, waving a hand at the guards.

“Leave us. Guard the door.”

They pushed Merlin to his knees and then exited, the door closing with an audible clang. A key turned in the lock and Merlin knew that running was not an option, no matter what was about to happen here.

He didn’t know if he was in any condition to run anyway. It had been a week since the beating and he still felt sore. And he was tired – the kind of tiredness that comes from being on guard all the time, from living in fear. He was almost too tired to be afraid of whatever was about to happen to him, so he simply knelt and waited and hoped he would be able to sleep again soon.

“Where?” Cenred was saying.

“Doesn’t matter,” Enmyria replied in her usual flat voice.

“Chest, then?” Cenred said and stripped off his jerkin and tunic, to Merlin’s surprise. He stood there bare chested, rubbing the side of his abdomen above his hip.

“Here,” he said and Enmyria nodded.

“Stand in the middle.”

She was indicating the central point of the chalk markings on the floor. It was clear a ritual of some kind was about to take place but Merlin couldn’t guess for what.

When Cenred was situated correctly, the three sorcerers formed a triangle around him. They joined hands and began to chant, their voices rising and melding together.

Suddenly Cenred bent double. The chanting continued, a bluish smoke rising up from the ground where the runes were inscribed.

Then there was a brief flash of gold and the chanting stopped.

Cenred was still bent over and Merlin found himself praying that the spell hadn’t worked, whatever it was. That Cenred had perhaps been hurt instead.

But the man straightened up and the gleam of triumph in his eyes killed Merlin’s brief hope.

He walked out of the circle and into the light. As he came closer, Merlin suppressed a gasp.

There was a silvery black rune standing stark against Cenred’s skin, just above his hip. It was shaped like a backwards curving S and it was glowing faintly. Merlin knew at once that it was infused with magic of some kind – though he could not say what for.

“Did it work?” Cenred said eagerly.

“I believe so, sire,” Myror said and Cenred’s eyes narrowed.

“But you’re not sure?”

“We won’t be sure until we’ve done the boy’s,” Enmyria said tonelessly.

Cenred seemed somewhat appeased.

“Very well. Get on with it.”

All three sorcerers suddenly turned to face Merlin. Before he had time to suck in a breath, Tauren was at his side, pulling him to his feet.

“What’s happening?” Merlin said, his voice quavering.

Tauren made no verbal reply but his response was worse – pulling at Merlin’s tunic. Merlin squirmed away but Tauren held him easily with one hand, stripping his shirt with the other.

“Tie him?” he asked Myror.

“He won’t keep still otherwise,” Myror said, rope already in hand.

“Tie me for what?” Merlin asked, trying to dig his heels in as Tauren dragged him across the room. Fear was clogging his chest; he didn’t want to be tied, he didn’t understand what was going on…

“Where do you want his?” Enmyria asked Cenred.

“Same place as mine,” Cenred said, pressing a hand over the mark on his side.

“N-no,” Merlin said.

They were going to mark him the same as Cenred. And he was willing to bet the rune wasn’t purely decorative. It would do something to his magic.

“You’re not marking me,” he said, voice rough with fear.

Tauren only tightened his grip on Merlin’s arms.

“Over the wheel,” Myror said.

“No. No!”

Merlin began to buck and thrash. He managed to land a kick on Tauren that caused the man to swear and drop him but Myror moved in quickly, pinning Merlin’s arms to his sides as he lifted him in the air.

“No, get off me– get off-”

Myror bent Merlin backwards over the wheel, his feet touching the ground and his arms above his head. His chest and stomach were stretched out, open and vulnerable, his injured ribs screaming in protest.

Merlin kicked out again but Enmyria was tying his arms and Tauren had come to bind his feet. He bucked his hips frantically, trying to throw them off, but there were too many hands holding him down. A few seconds more and then he couldn’t move at all, tied fast to the wheel and almost sick with terror.

“Let me go! I don’t want that mark on me!”

Tauren curled his lip.

“You won’t be getting that mark,” he said, tone casually cruel. “You’ll be getting a brand.”

Merlin looked at the fire and immediately began to hyperventilate. They were going to brand him. There was nothing he could do to stop them.

“No!” he cried out, looking for a scrap of mercy in the sorcerers. They were his kind, his kin, how could they do this to him…

Tauren’s eyes were lit up with malicious delight while Myror’s face was as cool and unruffled as ever. Enmyria was looking somewhere above Merlin’s head, her eyes far away and her face closed off.

“Please,” he sobbed and could have sworn he saw her flinch.

Myror was holding something in the fire, he drew it aloft and Merlin saw that it was a metal rod with a twisted shape at the end. It was sizzling with heat and Merlin screamed aloud, wildly thrashing against his restraints. Cenred moved into his eye line and Merlin strained towards him.

“Cenred! I’m sorry, I’ll give you my magic, don’t let them brand me-”

Cenred placed one cool hand on his forehead.

“Be brave, little starling. It will all be over soon and then things will be much easier, you’ll see.”

“No, please-”

Cenred moved away again and there was nothing to stand in the way of Myror’s advance.

“Stand in the circle,” Tauren said to Cenred and then the three sorcerers began to chant.

Merlin couldn’t pick out a word. He was wild with fear, pushing every bit of magic he had to the surface, willing it to burst free and save him.

But the cuffs were too strong. Merlin could only watch in horror as Myror held out the branding rod.

He passed out the split second before the brand touched his skin and ever after he wondered if the fear had overcome him, or if Enmyria had put him to sleep. Either way, he was glad not to have been conscious for that first flush of agony, as the pain was great enough when he awoke mere minutes later. He was lying on the floor, his limbs in spasm, and his side on fire. Merlin began to whimper immediately, clawing at the ground beneath him. It hurt so much, like an animal was savaging his stomach, worrying his tender flesh between its teeth. He turned his head and vomited, utterly overwhelmed by the pain.

“Give him a draught, Edwin,” a voice said above him, one that Merlin dimly recognised as Cenred’s.

He was propped up a little and the sudden throb of even such a small movement made him cry out. Someone thrust the neck of a bottle into his mouth and he choked around it. A rough hand massaged his throat, forcing him to swallow.

The pain eased, almost instantly. It lessened to a dull ache and Merlin was able to breathe again, albeit shakily.

“Clean it up and bandage it. He’s to sleep in your chambers tonight and you’re to check on it regularly. Give him another draught if he needs it.”

Cenred’s tone was brisk and dismissive. Merlin felt hands under his body and he was lifted bridal style, into what he presumed were Edwin’s arms. His eyes were still too blurry with tears to see properly. But he felt a strange lack of weight on his wrists and when he forced his eyes open to look, the iron cuffs were gone.

When they reached Edwin’s chambers he was laid down on a bed, the first he’d been in since his arrival here. Edwin cleaned his side and Merlin felt nothing more than a vague throb. He had gone from burning up to being very cold and he noticed with a certain detachment that his body was shaking all over.

Edwin held up a vial when he was finished.

“Sleeping potion,” he said.

Merlin made no answer, nor any attempt to move. Edwin huffed and pulled Merlin up, pushing the vial into his mouth and massaging his throat as before.

It took ten minutes for the potion to work and Merlin spent them staring at the ceiling, wondering why, if the iron cuffs were gone, his magic was nowhere to be found.

 

 

 

 

He awoke at dawn and was immediately assaulted by pain. He struggled into a half-sitting position and found a small bottle on the table next to his bed. Not much caring whether it healed or killed him at this point, Merlin uncorked it and drank.

The pain dissipated. Merlin sat all the way up and began to unwrap the bandage around his waist almost mechanically. He had to see, he had to know…

There was a looking glass in the corner of the room and Merlin stood on unsteady feet, tugging off the last of the bandage as he stopped in front of it.

He stood completely still for a very long time, not even moving to wipe away the tears that spilled from his eyes.

The brand was big. A larger version of the one Cenred had received; a thick curve standing stark against his skin. The area around it was raised and red and the flesh itself was weeping a little.

  

 

He had been marked for life. Permanently scarred. Identified forever as belonging to Cenred.

He was still standing there motionless when Edwin walked in.

“Do you want to die of an infection?” he said irritably and pushed him back towards the bed.

Merlin stayed silent as Edwin cleaned the brand again and wrapped a fresh bandage around it, before feeding him another vial of the sleeping potion.

“What does it do?” was the only question he allowed himself, just as Edwin was walking out the door.

“You’ll find out,” came the reply and Merlin was alone again.

 

Merlin did find out, that very day. He was brought out onto the training field, where Cenred and the sorcerers were waiting for him. Merlin didn’t feel any fear as he approached them, he didn’t feel anything at all. His entire body was numb, like all the emotion had been burned out of him when the brand touched his skin.

He still had no sense of his magic.

“How are you?” Cenred said and Merlin turned his face away.

“Myself, I’m excellent,” Cenred continued, as though nothing was wrong. “Infused with new life. Raring to go. But we’re not here to prattle, eh? We’re here to train!”

Cenred cocked his head at Merlin, a smile in his eyes.

“I believe Tauren has already taught you a basic blast spell.”

He had, intending for blasting an opponent or obstacle out of the way. Merlin had refused to put it into practice, of course.

Cenred gestured to one of the straw figures.

“Use it on that one.”

Merlin opened his mouth to say no, that it would take more than a brand to force his obedience. But the words never made it past his lips. Instead a different word came out, tripping off his tongue like he had no control over it.

“ _Ácwele_!”

Merlin let out a cry of shock as he felt magic ripple through him.

In the distance, the figure exploded, sending straw flying left and right. Merlin stared, uncomprehending, for a moment, unable to put the pieces together. Behind him Cenred was laughing.

“A resounding success! My compliments to the three of you. Even until now, I doubted it could be done.”

Merlin was frozen in place, his lips still tingling with a word he had not spoken.

“I don’t understand,” he said, and his voice sounded far away.

Cenred walked over to clap him on the shoulder.

“An answer to our little stand-off. I knew it was too hard for you to give free rein to your magic after years of stifling it. So, Myror came up with an alternative solution. You don’t have to give over your magic to us anymore.”

“Why not?” Merlin croaked.

“Because we already control it,” Cenred said simply. “Your brand binds your magic to me, gives me unfettered access to it. All I have to do is say the word and you will cast whatever spell I choose.”

Merlin felt like he was looking down on himself from a great height. He was totally removed from his body; a body that did not belong to him anymore. His magic was the essence of his being, and now, it was in the hands of someone else.

“As the owners of the ritual, these three can channel and direct your magic too,” Cenred was saying. “So you can train when I’m not around. The brand has a built in boundary spell too, should you stray too far from the castle. I wouldn’t recommend it; the consequences are not pleasant.”

He clasped his hands in front of him.

“But let’s not dwell on that. We can bring you out of the dungeons, set you up with a chamber befitting your new status. Our seamstress can measure you for some better clothes. The rations in the cell have been sparse, I know, but you’ll be dining with me now.”

Cenred smiled expansively.

“I keep my prize sorcerers well looked after, don’t worry. Work hard in training each day and you shall have whatever you desire. Sweetmeats, books, trinkets, anything you fancy.”

He squeezed Merlin’s arm.

“My plans for you may seem large, little starling, but your magic is beyond compare. I know we will do great things together, you and I.”

Merlin turned at that, looked into Cenred’s eyes. Thought of all that the king was offering, all that he wanted Merlin to be.

He leaned forward and spat in Cenred’s face.

No one moved or spoke for a long moment. Slowly, Cenred reached into his pocket and withdrew a handkerchief, bringing it up to wipe his cheek.

“Have it your way,” he said, very softly. He motioned and Tauren came forward, grabbing Merlin’s arms and pulling him forward.

Merlin resisted violently as he was dragged away from the field and across the courtyard. The numbness was gone, replaced with a rage so wild and terrible that Merlin felt he could bring the sky down with the force of his anger. He kicked and screamed enough that Myror had to come and help Tauren, and even then the two men struggled to keep hold of him. When they stopped next to the vast disused well in the centre of the courtyard, Myror dropped him and muttered a quick spell, binding Merlin’s hands and feet with ropes of twine.

Cenred walked over to where Merlin was lying on his side, still thrashing and shouting.

“I grow tired of your disobedience,” he said coldly. “I have been too indulgent of your tantrums, too lenient of your defiance. That ends now. If you would rather live like a prisoner than a respected mage, so be it.”

There was a loud scraping sound, like metal on stone, and Merlin turned to see three guards removing the heavy grate from on top of the well. The implication was clear and instead of fear, Merlin only felt more anger. They would not put him in that well. He wouldn’t let them.

His magic was no longer his, true, but there was another part of him that did not require a spell to exist. The iron cuffs had held it back but somehow Merlin knew with a sudden clarity that this was no longer the case.

Tauren cast out a hand, lifting Merlin in the air with magic. He hovered Merlin over the opened well, close enough so Merlin could see down to his dark depths. It was clear that it had been empty for a long time, as if waiting to be used for a purpose such as this.

Merlin wasn’t going to allow it.

Tauren dropped him and Merlin changed forms.

His suspicion was proved right as the brand did nothing to prevent him from changing. Merlin unfurled as he fell, righting himself four metres down the well with one quick flap of his wings. It felt so good to be back in his dragon form at last.

There was no time to luxuriate in the feeling. Tauren had reacted quickly, magicking the metal grate back into place when he saw Merlin change. But a barrier such as this was no match for him now. Merlin flew straight at it, confident in his dragon form in a way he never was in his human. He knew for sure that one strong tug would tear the whole thing apart.

He faltered for only a second, when he saw Cenred watching him through the grate. The man didn’t look at all concerned by Merlin’s imminent escape; on the contrary, he looked quite calm.

Then he’s a fool, Merlin thought grimly and wrapped his claws tightly around the middle bars, ready to wrench it loose.

Cenred lifted his shirt and pressed his fingers to the rune on his side.

For a moment Merlin didn’t know what had happened. He could feel the slough of magic run over him, but if Cenred had been trying to dislodge him then he had failed, his hands were still gripped tight around the grate…

His hands.

His human hands.

He had switched back. Or rather he hadn’t. Cenred had made him.

He could control Merlin’s transformation with the rune.

The shock of it was almost enough to make Merlin lose his grip. He swung desperately in mid-air, his hands so much weaker than his talons had been.

Cenred bent down, bringing his face close to the grate.

“You brought this on yourself,” he said, almost regretfully.

Then he stamped down hard on Merlin’s fingers.

And Merlin fell.

 

 

 

 

Merlin spent the next year living on and off in the well. He measured his time by scratching one thin line into the wall for each night he spent there.

The well was twenty yards deep. Merlin had broken his back that first day Cenred had let him fall. He’d lain there for three hours, and at the point at which he was sure the life was leaving his body, Edwin had healed him.

Such healing would rarely occur over the next year. Only broken bones and illnesses that threatened to put Merlin out of action for long periods would merit treatment from Edwin. Not the frequent times that Merlin caught cold from long winter nights spent huddled in the damp. Or the stiff joints and tired limbs that came from sleeping cramped in a tiny space with no room to spread out.

At night time it was pitch black, the stars above barely visible. But the glimpses of them he could see lent him some form of comfort. They would cover the grate when the rain or snow was particularly harsh, but in some ways Merlin hated that even more. Being cut off from even the merest pinprick of light seemed a far crueller punishment than catching a cold.

He didn’t spend every night there. He would be brought up for training each day and if he was good, he would be allowed to sleep on the floor in the servant’s quarters. If he hadn’t done as he was told, he would be put back in the well. Larger defiances might earn him a few straight nights or even a week in there.

There were two thin blankets at the bottom and two buckets on a pulley. One brought food down and the other took the chamber pot up. When it was time for training, a rope ladder would be dropped down and Merlin would slowly climb up; his body aching after a night spent on the cold damp ground.

His only spark of hope in the well was a small loose stone in the wall that he’d moved aside to create a hidey hole. He kept in there a collection of what he called ‘objects’ – a coin he’d found on the ground, an acorn, a smooth stone, a flower from the field. He would shove them in his pockets in the day time and then take them out at night, placing one beside his head while he slept so it would be the first thing he’d see in the morning. It was good to bring a little colour down there because the well was never anything but dark and grey

At first, Merlin spent most of his nights in dragon form. It had the disadvantage of making him much larger, and thus giving him even less room to lie down. It had the advantage of hardiness. His skin was much more resistant to the cold and he could even puff out fire to warm himself on the chilliest of nights. There was something comforting about being his dragon self; something that made him feel braver and stronger when his human self had spent the day being pushed around.

However, as the months wore on and the training became more and more intense, Merlin found himself not wanting to switch. The early months were more about ascertaining the full extent of Merlin’s powers, with Tauren forcing him to try every spell under the sun to see what he could do. When the focus turned to what his dragon self could do, he began to feel differently.

The sorcerers didn’t treat Merlin well when he practiced in human form, but at least there was a sense that they recognised he had a mind of his own (even if Tauren strongly resented it). They treated his dragon self differently. It was as though they thought him a dumb beast; a creature made simply to rain down chaos and destruction. There was less strategy and finesse when they taught the dragon; the emphasis seemed to be on brute force. They wanted to see him burn huts to the ground, claw dummies apart with his talons, use his mighty jaws to bear down on his prey.

It was violent and it was brutal and Merlin hated it. The first few times he refused point blank. They had access to the same power Cenred’s rune had; they could force him to change forms. But they couldn’t control what he did once he switched. The brand allowed them to direct his magic; but his dragon self didn’t use spells. He didn’t have magic when he was in that form, he _was_ magic.

He was powerless to escape or to hurt them, true. His brand stopped him from causing any harm to the sorcerers, or Cenred himself. And the boundary spell would kick in if he tried to fly away.

Merlin could still hurt other people. The spell only protected Cenred and the sorcerers. He was free to threaten the servants, the stable hands, the people that lived in the village.

But Cenred wouldn’t care. Holding them hostage would achieve nothing; they were all expendable in Cenred’s eyes. He’d even jokingly suggested once that Merlin use the peasants as target practice.

Even if Cenred had cared, Merlin wasn’t sure he could have followed through. He didn’t want to hurt or kill anybody. And the people of the citadel weren’t the ones keeping him prisoner. They didn’t deserve to suffer.

So Merlin fought back in the only way he could. He refused to follow their orders. He would lie flat on the ground, curling his tail around himself, snapping at them when they came near. Or he would fly to the furthest point of the boundary line, and swoop away again when they got near.

They soon developed other methods of control. They tied his wings so that he couldn’t fly and then Tauren brought out the hunting dogs. The hounds would chase him from one end of the field to the other, snapping and biting and clamping their thick jaws around his tail. One day Merlin was so tired and in so much pain that he forgot his own edict not to kill, and set two on fire. He was muzzled after that and the dogs were free to torment him once more.

On the days the dogs were out hunting, the sorcerers handled the discipline themselves. It was hard to cast a spell strong enough to penetrate a dragon’s hide, even harder to use physical force on it. But Tauren found that the area under Merlin’s jaw was softer and more vulnerable; and that a sharp hit with a wooden stick could cause considerable pain. He took to carrying round a specially carved baton to deliver a judicious rap to Merlin when he felt the situation warranted it. Merlin would switch back at the end of some sessions to find purple bruises around his throat, so sore that it hurt to swallow for days.

It grew too much to bear. Merlin tried to stab the brand away one day, seizing Myror’s knife and levelling it at his hip in an attempt to cut the hated thing out.

The knife jumped back from his skin, as if repelled. Tauren laughed at him, said no such knife could rid him of the brand. Then he beat Merlin soundly, for even daring to try.

After six months, Merlin broke. He couldn’t take the pain anymore; couldn’t bear having his wings tied and his jaw muzzled like a wild animal. He stopped fighting them. He agreed to burn haystacks for them, to tear the practice dummies apart, to snap and snarl on command.

He still wouldn’t kill. They brought a prisoner once to the training field, a man due to be executed for murder, and told Merlin to savage and burn him. Merlin lay down and all the dog bites and baton hits in the world couldn’t get him up again. Cenred confined him to the well for nearly two weeks and then brought a new prisoner out. Merlin refused again.

It was the only stalemate that he won. Cenred and the sorcerers eventually grew tired of punishing him for refusing to kill the prisoners and stopped bringing them out. They all warned him that he would have to kill eventually and Merlin said nothing. He had no intention of that ever happening.

In despite of that small victory, the comfort of his dragon self began to diminish. In the beginning it was easier to keep it all separate, but at the height of the muzzlings and punishments, the last thing Merlin wanted to do was stay dragon all night. He told himself it was just the negative association of the punishments, that it was harder to feel safe in a form he had always thought of as impervious until he had been so cruelly proven wrong.

By the time he had given in and started to obey as the dragon, his feelings had subtly altered. It wasn’t just that his dragon form no longer felt as safe as it once had. It was also that _he didn’t like it_. 

When in human form, the spells were forced from his mouth. He had no control over them and no way of stopping them. He felt used and miserable, but he never felt guilty because he knew he had no choice.

When in dragon form… he followed orders. He had resisted, true, but ultimately he had given in. He wasn’t able to withstand the pain and so he had let them use him as a beast of carnage.

It was too hard to bear, knowing that he was colluding in his own subjugation. That he was letting himself be a pawn in a game of war and violence. Some days, Merlin hated himself so deeply that he could hardly stand it.

The shame needed an outlet. He didn’t remember at what point it was that he started viewing his dragon form as something separate from his true self. He only knew that the nights he spent as a dragon became more and more infrequent until they stopped altogether. After that the only time he switched to dragon form was on the training field. From that point it was hard to see his dragon self as anything other than a creature of destruction. It was a thing that only came out in the open to breathe fire and use its claws and teeth in violence. It was a monster.

 

By the end of one year, the marks in the wall told Merlin he’d spent two hundred and twenty days in the well.

The only other mark on the wall was a word, imprinted just weeks before. It was a word Merlin had found in a magic book, and the definition given was something secret, something hidden, something dark.

The word was Rún. And it was the name that Merlin gave to the dragon that he shared a body with, because he no longer saw it as a part of himself. It was a distinct entity, distanced from him, detached from his true self.

And Merlin hated it.

 

 

Two weeks after his one year anniversary in the cell, Merlin decided to die.

He could have possibly stolen a stone sharp enough from the training field to achieve this end; maybe even lifted one of Tauren’s knives if he was really lucky. But there was an easier way and it was a way that appealed more to Merlin somehow.

He was going to starve to death.

In the early days of defiance, he had refused to eat once, letting the food from the bucket be hauled back up untouched. He lasted two days that time before Cenred had him dragged from the well. He was tied to a chair in the banquet hall and force fed until he vomited, and the experience was horrific enough to make sure he never tried that again.

But this time Merlin was strategic. When Cenred stopped by the day’s training he deliberately enraged him, earning himself an uninterrupted week in the well. Then he removed the food from the bucket when it came down and hid it in the little hidey hole. As far as the guards were aware, he was eating everything they gave him and no one looked any further into it.

By the second day his stomach was twisted painfully in on itself. He grazed his knuckles against the wall to distract himself from the ache, pressed his fingernails into his palms until he drew blood.

By the morning of the third day he didn’t have the energy to do anything but lie curled up, his vision blurry and his head thick. He knew it was the lack of water that would kill him, not the lack of food, and it turned out that dehydration was a painful way to go. In the rare moments where he could summon some rational thought, he was surprised he had not died already. His body had already been so battered and broken through the course of the year, he didn’t know it had any reserves left to draw on. He suspected his magic might be keeping him alive, but he knew that even magic couldn’t run on nothing. He would likely not survive another day.

It never came to that. Merlin thought he was hallucinating when he saw Myror climbing down the rope ladder and he made no protests when he was slung over the man’s shoulder and carried to the surface. His vision swum so much when he made it to the bright light above that he could barely see, but he thought it was Tauren who tried to tip a cup of water down his mouth.

He threw it up and laughed, because none of this was real and there could be no consequences. Someone shook him and his head jarred painfully and he felt darkness creeping in. Time to leave now. Time to leave for good.

He woke up again and he was not outside anymore. He didn’t know any more than that and his eyes were still filmy and unfocussed.

He was dimly aware of being propped up against someone’s chest, and a hand cupping his chin so water could be poured into his mouth, much slower this time. It tasted sugary and his stomach tried to rebel again, but the person just rubbed his back and waited for him to subside.

He continued to come in and out of consciousness for a while. At one point he was fed a concoction of some kind and his vision cleared; his brain suddenly much less foggy and confused than before.

But no demands were made of him and he was left to sleep. Not on the floor or in a cell or back down in the well. In a soft clean bed with sheets that smelt of lavender and a pillow plumper than any Merlin had ever laid his head on.

It was hard to tell how long he slept for, but when he awoke again, there was a cup by his bedside with a scrap of parchment next to it saying: ‘Medicine: drink on awaking’.

Merlin did, still feeling a little dreamlike. He sat up to look around and didn’t recognise the room he was in at all. It was opulent beyond measure; with red velvet drapes on the windows, decorative swords mounted on the walls, a bearskin rug laid out across the floor.

There was also a tub in the corner and Merlin was surprised to see that it was nearly full with water. He barely had time to ponder why when the door swung open. He jumped instinctively but it was only a maid he’d seen around the castle before, young and freckled, carrying a bucket of steaming water.

“Oh!” she said, startled. “I was… I mean. The king has given you leave to take a bath. I was just pouring it.”

Merlin parsed her words for a moment.

“Where am I?” he said at last and his voice came out rough and hoarse.

“In the king’s chambers,” she said, with a sort of anxious head bob.

She poured the bucket into the tub as Merlin rubbed at his head, trying to think. He remembered the well and the starving and the being dragged out; what he couldn’t understand was how this sequence of events would lead to him being in Cenred’s private chambers.

“Well… that’s the last one, so I’ll be going. Unless you need…”

She looked afraid and he wondered what she had heard about him round the castle. Or maybe she had heard nothing but simply seen him throwing fireballs in the field, or Rún tearing through the undergrowth, jaws snapping wide.

Merlin suddenly remembered why he had wanted to die. He shook his head mutely and the girl almost ran from the room.

He could end it all now, since he was alone. Could throw himself out the window or pull one of those swords off the wall and run himself through. But the fervour Merlin had felt was gone. He was weary now. It took a certain type of passion to end your life, even in the slow and passive way he had chosen, and he hadn’t the energy at present to try again.

He looked at the tub instead.

Merlin hadn’t had a bath since he’d been brought here; he usually washed with cold water and the slivers of soap he begged from the kitchen. It felt too odd to take a bath in Cenred’s chambers, even to undress in here, yet no one was around and the water looked so clean and smelt so good…

He pulled off his clothes quickly, before he could change his mind. But he hadn’t remembered that there was a looking glass on the wall and he found himself face to face with his own reflection.

Merlin hadn’t looked at himself naked for a long time. It was worse than he could have anticipated. He was little more than a walking skeleton; papery skin pulled tight over sharp bone. His collarbones and ribs protruded from his body and his skin had an unhealthy grey tinge to it. There were faint scars across his arms and chest, bruises covered his legs, and his brand looked as red and angry as the day he’d first gotten it.

His body felt alien to him, seeing it now. Like it wasn’t his at all. It was as though the real Merlin had died aged fifteen in Ealdor and only an echo of that boy remained, trapped in a broken down facsimile. He could hate the frailty and ugliness of the body before him, were it not for the fact that it did not feel like his own. He was removed from it, unattached to it. He was not Merlin of Ealdor anymore.

He bathed quickly and dressed in the fresh clothes he found laid out by the screen. Even that simple action had exhausted him and he climbed back into bed the moment he was done.

The thought crossed his mind that he was in Cenred’s bed but he was too tired to care. In moments he was asleep again.

When he woke, Cenred was sat by the bed. His hands were steepled under his chin and he stared straight at Merlin. For a long moment, they simply looked at each other.

“You tried to die, little starling.”

Cenred’s voice was softer than Merlin had ever heard it, and there was no hint of danger behind the words. If Merlin didn’t know better, he’d think the king sounded almost sad.

There was a plate of food on the table behind him. Cenred picked it up and Merlin shook his head.

Cenred looked at it for a moment and then replaced it on the table. He returned to his chair, drawing closer to Merlin’s side than he was before.

“Do you know why I brought you here from Ealdor?”

It was a question that Merlin had considered often, and had come to no better conclusion than the fact that Cenred was a power hungry king, and power hungry kings liked to command dragons.

“Myror was scrying with a purpose. I did not tell him to seek out the most powerful warlock in Albion just so I could add you to my collection. I did not have you brought and trained here for the purpose of general intimidation; of showing my father he was wrong to cast me out.”

Merlin had learned since his capture of Cenred’s true identity. The information had mattered little to him, but a part of him had assumed that he might be used to help retake the kingdom Cenred still thought of as his.

“In the early years after my flight, I admit I wanted nothing more. To take my rightful place as King of Essetir and watch my enemies tremble before me. But then my plans became bigger. And bigger plans required more power. So when Myror informed me that he had found a boy who could turn into a dragon, a boy whose magic shone brighter than any he had seen before… I knew I had to have you.”

Cenred placed his hand on the bed.

“And now I will tell you why. I will no longer settle for Essetir. I want to be High King of all Albion, to unite the nations and rule them all. And to achieve this end…”

He leaned forward.

“You will help me to conquer Camelot.”

Just as he had on the first day he had met Cenred, Merlin began to laugh.

“It’s not possible,” he said, when he had subsided. “Their defences are unparalleled.”

“Let me worry about their defences. You will be at my side in the battle. You are a weapon no man can counter.”

Merlin leaned back on the pillows, tired enough to drift away. This was what it came down to, after all this time.

“I’m not a weapon,” he said, expecting Cenred neither to listen nor care.

To his surprise the man looked contemplative.

“Not just a weapon, no. You are also a boy of formidable talents. And you will grow into a man of great strength. I recognise that, don’t think that I don’t. It is why I want you at my side not only in battle… but in all things.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m offering you a chance to be my consort, little starling.”

Merlin’s stomach dropped. He could not pretend he had never caught the glances that Cenred sent his way, but he assumed that the king’s behaviour indicated nothing more than a proprietary feeling of possession over Merlin. To think that there might have been deeper sentiments in that gaze…

“Consort?” he said, his throat tight.

“Yes. A chance to sit at my right hand, to rule by my side. I believe it to be fated – my regency and your magic. The king and the warlock, united in victory.”

He smiled.

“Your life will be more pleasurable than you have ever known, and I won’t make you wait for Camelot to be won. We could make the arrangements tonight. You will want for nothing and as consort you will answer to no one but me. You will not find me a cruel husband, I think. I take good care of those who cleave to me.”

For the briefest of moments, Merlin was tempted. To have to obey the sorcerers no longer, to be protected from Tauren’s abuse. To lie in a bed as soft as this one every night, to wear clothes that were more than mere rags, to have a belly full of warm food…

But sense prevailed and the illusion shattered. There could be no lifestyle that would be worth giving himself to Cenred. The man may have taken everything else from Merlin, but he had not yet bought Merlin’s will.

“No,” he said, clear and distinct. “I don’t want that. I don’t want you.”

Cenred’s eyes darkened.

“I’m not asking,” he said deliberately. “You belong to me and I have been patient long enough. I desire you and I intend to take my due.”

Merlin’s heart was rabbiting in his chest, his breath coming quick and sharp. He raised his head and looked directly into Cenred’s eyes.

“If you touch me I’ll… I’ll… I’ll kill myself. I will, I swear. You can’t watch me all the time. I’ll find a way.”

Merlin had never been so serious in his life. He could not bear the thought of Cenred’s hands on him in that way. He would rather die.

Cenred’s lips thinned.

“This threat is growing old already. I tire of such dramatics. No right-thinking peasant boy would turn down the chance to be a king’s consort. A warlock of your power and a ruler of my strength… we are made for each other. You will see that, in time.”

Then he sighed.

“But perhaps you have some growing up to do before that point. Some time to put away your immature fancies and accept what is best for you.”

His eyes locked onto Merlin’s.

“I will give you until the conquering of Camelot. You have my word I will not lay a hand on you before then. But after that point… you _will_ be my consort, Merlin. I intend to rule Albion with you at my side and you will have to make your peace with that.”

Merlin would never make his peace with the idea of being consort to Cenred; the magical accomplice to his tyrannical king. The idea sickened him on every level.

Still, the conquering of Camelot was not yet. It could take years to achieve. It might never happen at all. Merlin could have been rescued by then. He could have escaped. Cenred could have been assassinated…

He was loath to agree to Cenred’s proposition, but a small voice inside him whispered _survival_. He had wanted to die three days ago. No doubt there would be times when he would want to die again.

But he also wanted to see Cenred fall and his reign of terror end. He wanted to control his own powers again. He wanted to live a life free of blood and pain.

He wanted to see his mother.

He had to survive. And this was the only choice he could make right now.

“How do I know your offer is true?” he asked.

“Am I not a man of my word?”

In a twisted way, Cenred was. He had not lied to Merlin yet. He was upfront in his cruelty, open with his malice. Merlin couldn’t say for sure that he would keep his promise and yet something in him believed it.

Or maybe he just couldn’t bear to consider the alternative.

“Yes,” he said.

“Yes, I’m a man of my word, or yes to the proposition?”

“Both,” Merlin said, swallowing hard. “I will be your consort if Camelot is conquered. Not before.”

Cenred laughed delightedly.

“ _When_ Camelot is conquered,” he corrected. “But I won’t take your pessimism to heart.”

He let his gaze linger on Merlin’s lips.

“I’m not sure which will be sweeter, little starling. The day Camelot kneels before me or the day you do.”

Merlin recoiled, fists bunched tight in the bedsheets. If Cenred said one more word, Merlin didn’t know if he had the strength to keep to his promise…

But then, Cenred’s tone turned brisk and practical. He picked up the dinner plate and placed it on Merlin’s lap, clearly indicating that he wished him to eat.

“That, however, is in the future. For now I decree that if you will not be my consort, then you will be my servant.”

“You mean slave?” Merlin said, picking up the knife and fork. Servants were paid and could leave when they chose. He sensed those privileges would not be afforded to him.

Cenred shrugged carelessly.

“Call it what you like. The work will be hard and the days long but if you are so determined to reject a life of luxury…”

“And training?”

“You will fit that around your new duties.”

Merlin bit his lip.

“So nothing will change,” he said dully.

Cenred steepled his fingers.

“I didn’t say that. I am willing to discuss a few small… alterations to your lessons.”

“Such as?”

Cenred smiled tightly.

“Name your terms.”

“I don’t want to kill anyone,” Merlin said immediately. “Even if they’re a prisoner, even if they’re about to die anyway.”

Cenred regarded him.

“You’ll have to kill at some point, little starling. I cannot imagine the invasion of Camelot will be a bloodless one.”

He leaned back in his chair, appearing to consider.

“However… I’ve seen what you can do. There is no need for you to prove it again. From now on you may practice on animals instead.”

The thought of that still turned Merlin’s stomach, but it was much better than the alternative so he nodded and tried to think of other concessions while Cenred was in a bargaining mood.

“I don’t want to be hit anymore.”

“Hit? By whom?”

“Tauren,” Merlin said. “With his hands or his baton. Or sometimes with magic.”

Cenred looked almost troubled.

“I authorised him to use force when you disobeyed-”

“He uses it whether I disobey or not,” Merlin said and, for once, Cenred didn’t narrow his eyes at the interruption.

“Very well. If he has been over-zealous, I will put a stop to it.”

“Thank you,” Merlin said quickly, forcing the words out. It would be well to keep Cenred happy, especially as his next request was trickier.

“I want you to stop forcing me to change forms with the brand-” Merlin started but Cenred was already shaking his head.

“No, no, little starling. That’s not negotiable. I control your transformation, not you. Your powers belong to me and it will stay that way.”

Merlin could see that Cenred was immovable and angry tears pricked at his eyes.

He would never get his powers back. He would just be used as a tool by Cenred, made to carry out his whims until all of Albion fell to his grasp.

He pushed away the half empty plate in front of him, regretting his decision to give in and eat. The motion did not go unnoticed by Cenred, who leaned forward in his chair again.

“But I will make you an alternative offer. If you promise to behave yourself… you will not be put in the well again.”

Merlin’s head shot up.

“Not ever?”

“I will have it covered up tonight if you agree.”

Merlin narrowed his eyes.

“What if you change your mind?”

“On my word, I will not,” Cenred said simply.

He rose to his feet.

“However, there will be other punishments for disobedience. Do not test my mercy.”

“But not the well?” Merlin said, unable to keep his voice from cracking.

“Not the well. I swear it.”

Merlin took a deep breath, in and out.

“I agree,” he said, and Cenred smiled.

“Good. There is a small annexe to the servant’s quarters; you will sleep there from now on. You will be responsible for getting up and going to training on time. After that you will report to the steward for a list of tasks to complete.”

Merlin made to get up out the bed but Cenred waved his hand.

“Once you’ve recovered. You may sleep here tonight and stay in this room tomorrow. You will also eat three hearty meals and you will be attending the servant’s mealtimes from now on. This will never happen again, do you understand?”

Merlin nodded.

“Finish that plate. I will see you in the morning,” Cenred said and swept from the room, locking the door behind him.

Merlin stared into space for a long time, thinking over all that had been said. He came to no conclusions, except for the fact that he would do as Cenred said and finish his dinner.

There would be no more thoughts of death. From now on, he would survive.

 

 

 

 

Comparatively, life became easier after that night. Cenred kept to the promises he had made. There were no more prisoners brought out for Rún to burn. Tauren’s baton vanished and he did not lay hands on Merlin again, no matter how much he clearly desired to. Best of all, the well was covered up. Never again would Merlin have to navigate its dark and lonely depths; except in nightmares that left him cold and shaken in his annexe room.

He had to work though, and the work was hard. Merlin seemed to get the tasks that nobody else wanted, and he had less time due to training to finish them. He was exhausted all the time and, most mornings, he barely made it to training on time, having been up half of the night completing some trivial piece of washing or cleaning.

He could withstand the work. What he found hard was the isolation.

More than anything, Merlin was lonely. He missed his mother terribly; it was a fierce ache that embedded itself in his chest, flaring up whenever he was especially tired or miserable. He imagined he saw her face in the women of the castle, and once chased so far after a brown haired servant that he fell foul of the boundary spell, dropping to his knees in agony on the cold courtyard stone.

The pain in his lungs had been nothing compared to the pain of her turning round, looking nothing like his mother at all.

He had no friends here, either. Back in Ealdor, he hadn’t been popular with some of the village lads but there was always Will to turn to. They had spent almost every day together, shared every secret they’d ever had. Will knew what he was and not once had he judged him for it (though that was then, when Merlin had still been good and Rún untainted by sin). They had depended on each other and Merlin could not fill the gap that Will had left. Most of the servants here avoided him; fearful of his magic or fearful of incurring Cenred’s wrath – he rarely knew which.

It was not only friendship he was starved for. Hunith had told Merlin about the changes boys went through as they became men, and Merlin had experienced some before he was snatched from Ealdor. But that had all halted in the well. He’d been hungry for so long that he hadn’t experienced much of a growth spurt. His thinness kept him looking pubescent for much longer, and his face remained completely smooth. It was as though his development had been arrested at the moment of his capture, and he had been fifteen ever since.

But once he got out of the well and had more room to move around, to run and exercise, his body had shown signs of picking up where it left off. He’d finally grown taller – almost as tall as Cenred – and while he remained slim, his arms were lightly muscled from the manual labour he now undertook. His voice had deepened and his gait had lost some of its youthful coltishness.

With these changes came a new complication. For the first time in his life, Merlin was experiencing desire.

He had no frame of reference for these feelings and urges that came upon him on early mornings or late at night. His mother had made a few scant references to courtship and what came after, and Will had filled him in on some of the more crude details, but somehow he had never related any of that to his own life. And the years since his capture had been so fraught with pain and anguish that there hardly seemed time to ponder something so irrelevant to his current situation.

But waking up hard and wanting had become increasingly difficult to ignore. While Merlin had no idea what to do with these new impulses, he knew exactly what _not_ to do with them. So much as looking at another servant in the castle when Cenred had so definitively marked Merlin as his own would surely spell nothing but trouble.

So he avoided the suggestive glances that Mary the cook’s assistant occasionally sent him, and ignored the not-so-subtle hints that flowed freely from certain castle guards as he passed them in the halls. It was easy in a way – his fear of Cenred’s wrath and his own self-consciousness about his body (the body he shared with a monster, lest he forget) made abstaining a more attractive option than the alternative. And yet a part of him still cried out to be touched, still yearned for the feel of another hand than his own when he gripped himself late at night.

Perhaps it was inevitable that he should let his guard down in the end.

The temptation came from a wholly unexpected source – that of the seamstress’s son Aylwin. He was about Merlin’s age but they had rarely spoken before – they occupied different ends of the castle and Aylwin mostly assisted his mother, as opposed to engaging in the kind of menial work Merlin was tasked with. Aylwin always had a friendly smile for Merlin if their paths ever did cross though – unlike the majority of the castle staff who avoided Merlin like the plague.

So it was entirely by chance that Merlin came upon Aylwin in the courtyard one night after dark. He had been washing plates in the kitchen for three hours; the by-product of another extravagant feast held by Cenred. His hands were hot and red, and he thought to dip them a little in the horse trough before continuing to his bed. As he submerged them in the blissfully cool water, a hand fell on his shoulder.

Merlin jumped, heart hammering in his chest. He’d lived here long enough to know that physical contact almost always led to pain, in one way or another.

But when he turned it was not to see the face of an angry guard or even a displeased Cenred. Aylwin was there, sheepishly raising his hands high.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he said and Merlin was surprised to hear the gruffness of his voice. The last time he’d spoken to Aylwin had been many months ago, and his voice was higher then.

He’d seemed more boyish too and yet now there were the makings of a man standing before Merlin; a light beard on his chin and broad muscles squaring his shoulders. The castle guards used to tease Aylwin for being a seamstress’ assistant, but Merlin doubted he was teased much anymore. He’d grown into someone who looked like he could repay an insult in kind.

“You didn’t, just…”

Merlin shrugged awkwardly, drying his wet hands on his breeches. He didn’t feel the need to explain to Aylwin that he was jumpy. He presumed the boy knew as well as anyone else in the castle how Merlin had been treated after his capture, how he was sometimes still treated.

The thought made shame well up in his chest, and Merlin turned to go. He couldn’t stand the pitying glances from other servants at the best of times, let alone a boy his own age.

But Aylwin reached out to stay his course.

“Actually, I… I fixed a hole in Cook’s dress and she gave me some honey wine in thanks. I was hoping to find someone who might share it?”

Merlin was caught off guard. Of all the things he might have expected Aylwin to say…

They didn’t even know each other. And yet Aylwin was looking at him with an open, friendly smile.

“The stable boys,” Merlin began weakly and Aylwin waved his hands.

“Bunch of oafs. They’d sooner laugh at me for knowing how to sew than share a drink with me.”

Merlin looked carefully at the bottle in his hand.

“I’ve never really drunk wine…” he said but his tone was wavering.

“It’s sweet,” Aylwin reassured him. “Not strong. You won’t end up legless, I promise.”

And something in his smile was so inviting that Merlin found himself nodding.

Aylwin proved to be wrong about the wine. It was sweet but it was most definitely strong as well. They finished the whole bottle between them, cloistered in Aylwin’s room, suppressing their giggles whenever they heard a guard patrolling nearby.

Aylwin’s mother was away and they had the chamber to themselves. Merlin didn’t quite know how to make conversation at first but the wine soon loosened his tongue. They talked only of trivial things – the Cook’s pretty daughter, the fat castle cat, the way the guards in the west wing were always trying to nap on the job. Aylwin made Merlin snort with laughter when he did an impression of the time Tauren had tripped on the training field and accidentally shot a fire ball at Myror’s head.

They grew more daring as they drank more. At one point Aylwin draped Merlin in a cloak that his mother was making for Cenred. They found themselves near to hysterical tears as Merlin paraded himself around, chin high and gaze haughty, an approximation of the lofty way Cenred swept around the castle.

It felt deliciously wrong to mock his master like this. The fact that he’d have been in more trouble than he dared to imagine if he was ever discovered only made it more intoxicating.

He fell back to the floor when he’d finished peacocking around, enjoying the pleasant and unfamiliar feel of a grin splitting his cheeks wide. It was good to smile again.

“Gods, he’s awful,” Aylwin said and Merlin fervently nodded, too out of breath from laughter to even speak.

But when he turned, Aylwin was no longer smiling.

“I mean it. He really is awful, isn’t he? To you.”

Merlin felt his stomach clench. He didn’t want to talk about this. He had enjoyed a night spent pretending to be normal for once; as though he was just another workshy servant skipping off for a drink whenever it took his fancy. He didn’t want Aylwin to begin looking at him like everyone else did; a mixture of pity and contempt for the pet he was to Cenred.

He tried to force a laugh but it came out somewhat strained.

“Isn’t he to everyone?”

“You especially,” Aylwin said and he sounded so serious that Merlin couldn’t bear it.

“I should go,” he mumbled, trying to stand on unsteady legs.

Almost instantly there was a hand pulling him back.

“No, wait, Merlin-”

Aylwin pulled a little too hard and Merlin stumbled, landing more or less in Aylwin’s lap. Embarrassed he tried to move away but Aylwin’s arm wrapped around him.

“Merlin…” he said again and it was a different kind of serious than before.

A warm, dry pair of lips pressed to Merlin’s own. Merlin was so shocked for a second that he couldn’t even move and then some kind of instinct took over. He kissed back, not knowing what else to do beyond moving his lips against Aylwin’s, but that seemed to be enough to elicit a groan from his companion. Merlin was still partially wedged in Aylwin’s lap and he twisted so their bodies were facing, bringing a hand up to stroke through Aylwin’s hair.

Merlin and Will had practiced kissing once, out in the woods. It hadn’t been five seconds before Will had pulled back and wiped his mouth, grimacing. Merlin had enjoyed it a little more than his friend seemed to, but he hadn’t quite dared to let on.

It was different to feel someone kissing him back. Passionately, properly, like there was nothing in the world they’d rather be doing.

Aylwin grunted a little and Merlin was almost shocked to feel a hand palming at his crotch. For a moment the strangeness outweighed the pleasure but then Aylwin bit down lightly on his neck and Merlin moaned out loud.

The pace quickened then, with Merlin moving himself into a position where he could press their crotches together, thrust them into each other. There was no talk of removing their clothes; they were too drunk to care and the only motivator seemed to be expediency.

Merlin couldn’t believe how much better it felt to be rubbing up against a warm body, instead of just his own hand. He let Aylwin tug on his hair, let him grope Merlin all over, push his tongue deep into Merlin’s mouth. All he wanted was to keep moving against the other boy and feeling that delicious friction send tingles through his entire body.

Aylwin spent first and Merlin followed shortly after. He was surprised to find that he felt no sense of awkwardness; especially when Aylwin wrapped his arms around Merlin and settled them both so they were lying curled into each other. Aylwin pressed one last kiss to Merlin’s mouth and then drifted off to sleep. Merlin stayed awake a little longer, in a happy honey-wine haze. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so relaxed and content, and all he could think was how nice it felt to be held by another human being. How reassuring. How safe.

 

They were still entwined in the morning when the guards arrived, sent to find Merlin after he had missed the start of training. Merlin was in a daze as he was dragged through the corridors towards the Great Hall, only sobering up when he saw Cenred pacing by his throne.

The king looked furious. Incandescent with rage. It was terrifying and suddenly Merlin realised the implications of what they had done last night, and what the consequences might be.

Cenred grabbed Merlin by the arm and threw him onto his knees, before towering over him. Aylwin was a few paces away, held fast by two guards. His face was sweaty, a little blood trickling down from his forehead. He looked pale and confused and petrified.

Merlin wanted to be sick. _What had he done?_

“The guards tell me you and young Aylwin here were found in quite a compromising position this morning.”

Cenred’s voice was a snake hiss.

“Is he the first? Or am I to discover you’ve been plying your wares all over the castle? Playing the whore for any man who’ll give you a second glance?”

Merlin had rarely seen Cenred this angry before and it terrified him. His tongue felt thick in his throat and he could only shake his head in response, numb to the core.

“Are you a whore, little starling?” Cenred’s voice was low and ugly. “Did I treat you too gently when I gave you a choice in submitting to me? Should I have bent you over the table and fucked you right then? Made sure you’d never go looking for it anywhere else? Is that what whores like you want?”

Tears were blurring Merlin’s eyes.

“‘M not a whore,” he whispered desperately.

Cenred paused then, as if deciding whether Merlin was to be believed.

“So he was the first?”

Merlin nodded.

“Only him,” he croaked out. “No one else. It was a mistake…”

“I have no patience for your excuses,” Cenred spat and Merlin’s mouth clamped shut. He risked another glance at Aylwin and saw that he was shaking all over.

How could he have thought that Aylwin was almost a man the day before? He was just a boy, like Merlin. They were both in over their heads.

A rough hand grabbed his chin, jerking it upwards. A cold pair of eyes gazed down at him, simmering with barely repressed fury.

“Did you let him fuck you?” Cenred said.

“No,” Merlin said instantly, overwhelmed in the face of Cenred’s rage. “We were just…”

He gestured helplessly and Cenred tightened his grip.

“Just what?” he said.

Merlin hesitated, his throat dry.

“Say it,” Cenred spat. “Say it now, before I run him through.”

Merlin’s face heated in equal parts fear and mortification.

“Kissing,” he mumbled. “And rubbing. We didn’t even take off our clothes…”

There was a pause. Merlin risked a glance upwards to see that Cenred was looking slightly mollified. He dared to hope that perhaps he had spoken the right words to save them.

That hope was dashed when Cenred let him go, raising a casual hand to the guard holding Aylwin.

“Kill him. His life is forfeit for touching what is mine.”

Merlin struggled to his feet, horror coursing through him.

“No! Please, Master, no!” he begged, tears forming in his eyes. “Let him be banished! Please let him be banished! It was my fault, my mistake…”

Perhaps it was the use of Master that caught Cenred’s ear, a name Merlin had sworn never to honour him with before. Or perhaps he had never intended to kill Aylwin and only wanted to scare Merlin so badly he never transgressed in this way again. Either way Merlin never knew what caused Cenred to deliberate for half a minute or more before giving a curt nod.

“The boy will be banished.”

He turned to Aylwin.

“You will leave this castle by nightfall and you will never return on pain of death.”

Merlin let out a shaky sob. He had cost Aylwin his livelihood, his home… but at least he hadn’t cost him his life.

Aylwin did not spare a glance for Merlin as he hurried from the room and Merlin did not blame him.

“As for you, little starling,” Cenred hissed out, rounding on Merlin. “Your punishment will be ten lashes and I will deliver them myself.”

Merlin bowed his head.

 

He took the lashes half crouched on the floor of Cenred’s chambers. Cenred used his belt, not a whip, and he did not make Merlin remove his tunic. It still hurt, enough to send tears coursing down Merlin’s cheeks; the pain of the strokes mingling with the fear of further punishment.

Cenred was so angry. What if he decided that Merlin couldn’t be trusted around other people anymore? What if he put him back into the well?

The thought made Merlin hyperventilate. He had been bad and this would be the penalty. Only this time he might never get out. He could almost feel the cold stone walls around him; taste the thick, damp air.

It became harder to take in air and he wheezed, desperately trying to suck in a breath. He couldn’t go back in the well. It would kill him. It would kill him…

“Alright. Hush. It’s alright.”

Merlin gasped for breath, unable to understand Cenred’s change in tone. He pitched forward a little and a hand steadied him.

“Breathe in. Breathe out. Take it slowly, now.”

It took several minutes to get his breathing under control and when it did he sank to the floor, completely overwhelmed.

He felt himself be lifted and carried to the bed. Cenred sat Merlin down next to him and then drew his body close, pressing a kiss to Merlin’s hair.

“There, now. All over with,” he said, and his voice was disarmingly gentle.

Merlin had been expecting further recriminations and he did not trust Cenred’s sudden calm.

It must have shown in his face because Cenred smiled.

“I’m not angry any more, little starling. Do you know why?”

Tearfully Merlin shook his head.

“Because you’ll never do that again, will you? Having seen the pain you caused today? That poor young lad banished from his home. Hauled up and disgraced in front of everyone.”

Cenred’s tone was sorrowful.

“You made a mistake, Merlin, and I’m afraid he paid the price. I’m sorry you had to learn such a hard lesson.”

He thumbed at the tears staining Merlin’s cheeks.

“You should have remembered that you’re mine.”

His words made acid rise in Merlin’s throat, not least because they were true. He should have known better. This was his fault.

“What do you say, mm?”

“I’m sorry,” Merlin said, voice hoarse from crying.

“And will you let anyone touch you again?”

“No,” Merlin said fervently, and it was a promise. He would never reach out again. He was better off alone; he brought nothing but trouble to other people. He was a bad omen. A curse.

A monster.

He did not struggle as Cenred arranged him face down on the bed, and removed his tunic. He did not object when Cenred rubbed ointment onto his fresh bruises, hands lingering on Merlin’s skin. He only stirred a little as Cenred traced the outside of his brand with one cool finger.

“That’s good,” Cenred said kindly, stroking Merlin’s hair. “My little starling.”

 _Little monster_ , the voice in Merlin’s head whispered.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: restraints, bodily transformation

Arthur hated him.

The thought circled around Merlin’s head as he rode. Arthur hated Merlin even if he didn’t know it, because Arthur hated the dragon.

And Arthur was right to hate him.

Merlin remembered what the prince had said in the cell, his eyes burning with righteousness.

_I would never yield to a man like Cenred; do his dirty work for him. I’d die first._

Perhaps Merlin had been right the day he tried to starve to death in the well. Perhaps the only noble choice he could have made was to rob Cenred of the chance to use his powers.

If Merlin was dead, Camelot might not be under attack. Arthur would not have been captured. The people in the village last night would not have been…

Merlin took in a shaky breath. He had tried not to hurt anyone. He had circled overhead for minutes before the attack began, blowing jets of warning flame in the air. The whole village had roused in alarm, men and women rushing out of their huts to stare disbelievingly at the sky, before snapping out of their panic long enough to head for the hills.

He had started burning the huts that he could see were empty. He knew Cenred had been watching, but he also knew the king was far away enough to miss the details. Like the fact he clawed only trees and fences when he swooped down with his talons outstretched. Like the fact that the flames he'd blown seemed to just miss the villagers as they ran from him, singeing the ground where they had stood. Like the fact that he’d heard a child crying in one of the still standing huts and flown on by, giving the mother enough to time to rush back and rescue it.

Still, he’d razed the village to the ground. He’d charred the pigs and sheep that could not flee fast enough. He’d burned the grain store to cinders and he’d scorched the crop fields.

The villagers might not be dead but their livelihoods were destroyed. Their homes were ashes. Without the grain and the livestock, some of them might not survive the winter.

If Merlin had starved to death three years ago, none of this would have happened.

It wasn’t enough anymore to think of Rún as divorced from himself. He was the one who had done all of that, just like he was the one who’d let the sorcerers train him to be a weapon. He should have carried on resisting, should have taken the pain, Arthur would have…

He glanced behind him, but Arthur was too far back to see. He’d been limping when Merlin had seen him this morning, favouring his left side. Cenred had done something to him, Merlin was sure of it. And yet Arthur’s face was still set in a proud sneer, defiance written in every line of his body. He hadn’t cowered and cringed at the first sign of pain; hadn’t let Cenred beat him into submission like Merlin had.

“Steady!”

Merlin jumped and tugged on his reins just in time to stop his horse veering off the path.

Cenred gave him a sharp look and Merlin mumbled an apology, focussing on the way ahead once more. He didn’t know where he stood with Cenred at the moment. He should be in favour, for what Rún had done last night (what _he_ had done, a vicious voice in his head reminded him). But Cenred had caught him crying outside the tent. Added to the way Merlin had been looking at Arthur the day before, and the incident with the medicine back in the castle, he feared Cenred might be beginning to suspect –

Suspect what? That he had feelings for Arthur? Merlin didn’t even know what those feelings were. Arthur was the first person he’d been able to talk to in years. The first person who’d treated him like a human being since he’d been captured. Arthur didn’t have contempt for him like the sorcerers did, and he wasn’t afraid of him like the servants were. The conversations they’d had might seem insignificant to anyone else, but to Merlin, they were precious. They were evidence that Arthur saw worth in him beyond a weapon or a slave; that he could be trusted as a confidante. It was pathetic but it was all Merlin had.

He was painfully aware those feelings didn’t extend both ways. The prince had a father who loved him, a sister who cherished him, and a circle of knights and sorcerers ready to die for him. What was Merlin to him? A lowly servant with a runaway mouth and a brand on his hip. Arthur had been grateful of his company, Merlin believed that much, but he would have been grateful for anyone’s company. If Arthur managed to escape from Cenred alive, he would probably never look back. Merlin would be nothing to him but a faint memory of the time he spent in captivity before returning to his rightful place amongst his people.

 _He confided in you,_ said a new voice in his head, entirely unlike the vicious one. _Told you about his family. Thanked you for helping him._

He has no allies here, Merlin argued back. It was natural to reach out to another person. It was just a mechanism of survival.

_And what of the look he gave you in the tent?_

Merlin felt his stomach stir a little to remember that strange, charged atmosphere when he’d fed Arthur the scraps. The way the prince’s lips had closed around his fingers – accidentally to be sure, and yet there had been something in the air…

_You desire him._

No. Merlin wouldn’t let himself go down that path. Even if Arthur felt any sort of connection to him right now, it would be irrevocably shattered if he knew what Merlin was. 

_Do not ask me to feel respect for the beast that killed my friend._

Tears stung the back of Merlin’s eyes. He hadn’t meant to swipe the horse that hard, he had been trying to make it bolt with the knight on its back. But the horse had reared and the knight had hit his head and then…

Merlin couldn’t bear to think about it. It had all happened so fast and despite his training, he had been scared and had panicked. The knights had looked so small on the ground and when his claws or tail made contact they fell like wooden soldiers.

He scrubbed his eyes with the back of his hand because it wouldn’t do for Cenred to see him crying.  He'd demand to know why. Merlin wanted to turn and look for Arthur again but he didn’t quite dare. He could still see Arthur’s face from last night, like it was seared into his mind’s eye. The way his voice had cracked and broken, the way his body had slumped in despair. The way he’d slipped into sleep with Merlin’s hand still stroking through his hair.

“Our reputation precedes us,” Cenred said, making Merlin jump. “My scout tells me word of your escapade last night has spread fast.”

“Oh?” Merlin said, unable to muster a better response. Cenred’s tone was ostensibly pleasant, but there was an edge to it that Merlin knew well.

“Word has spread very fast indeed. There seem to be a lot of villagers prattling about it to anyone who will listen. Almost as though a large amount survived the attack.”

Merlin’s stomach clenched.

“I left a few alive, to carry the news forward,” he said, and his voice did not quaver. He was well used to lying to the king by now.

“A few?” Cenred said and Merlin felt rather than saw his stare.

“As you instructed me, sire.”

“Perhaps I was not explicit enough,” Cenred said measuredly. “When we next make camp near a village, I expect you to kill them all.”

Merlin swallowed hard.

“But how will-”

“The burning huts will tell their own tale,” Cenred said, his voice very calm. “Do I make myself clear?”

Merlin’s hands were wrapped so tight around the reins he was sure he might draw blood.

“Yes, sire,” he said.

Arthur was right to hate him.

 

 

 

 

Arthur spent the walk thinking about the night before. He had woken up to find Merlin gone and Cenred asleep on the bedroll opposite him. He had ranted and raved until Cenred woke up and earned a punch to the stomach for his troubles. It had been worth it to tell Cenred exactly what he thought of him and his disgusting cowardice in sentencing a whole village to death.

The walk had been harder mentally than physically that day. Arthur was tormented by what he had seen and heard, and unable to stop himself transposing the scenes of terror in his mind’s eye to Camelot. By the time they stopped to set up camp for the day, he was both antsy and exhausted, in no mood to hide his disgust when Cenred came by.

“Nice  walk, princeling?” Cenred said as Enmyria finished resetting the boundary spell on Arthur’s collar.

“Fuck you,” Arthur said succinctly and Cenred’s lips thinned.

“I didn’t quite hear that.”

“Fuck. You.”

Cenred narrowed his eyes.

“Clearly you did not learn your lesson this morning. Perhaps a change in scenery will help you remember?”

He turned to the guards leading Arthur.

“Tie him to that,” he said, gesturing to a freshly planted tent pole. “We’ll see how hot-headed the prince is after a night in the snow.”

Arthur struggled against them but he was weak from the day’s walk and the earlier blow to his stomach. He’d never had the chance to fully heal from the beating at the castle, and the punishing marches he’d been on the last few days didn’t help.

He expected his arms to be pulled behind his back but instead Cenred produced a piece of braided rope and pointed towards Arthur’s collar.

“By the neck,” he said and Arthur snarled a little. Cenred meant to tie him like a dog and the thought was repellent. Not that he would let Cenred see his discomfort. He set his face like stone even as the men looped the rope through his collar clasp and wound it round the pole.

He spat at Cenred’s feet when they were finished, but the man only sneered at him.

“I think you can make do without supper tonight. Sleep well, princeling.”

Arthur waited until Cenred had stalked into his tent before he let himself shiver. The ground was frozen beneath him and already the wind was slicing through his thin clothes. He could just about manage when he was in motion all day but a night spent sitting still with no shelter from the chill – it would be ruthless.

It didn’t matter because he had no choice. Arthur drew his limbs into his body as tight as he could and tried not to think about how cold he felt. He had been on freezing patrols before; even spent one memorable night sheltering from a blizzard with Leon in a waterlogged cave. He’d caught a nasty cold, but he had survived.

As if his body was responding to the memory of that illness, Arthur began to cough. He could feel that the chill had sunk into his chest and already his throat was sore and his head heavy. If he was lucky, it would simply be another bad cold. If he was unlucky…

Arthur didn’t want to think about it. He had to hope that Cenred intended to keep him alive long enough to use him as a pawn in the fight against Camelot. There was no advantage in bringing Arthur along otherwise.

He was reaching the end of a fresh coughing fit when Merlin came by. He stopped short when he saw Arthur and his mouth worked a little, like he wanted to say something. Then his jaw went tight with what Arthur could only assume was anger.

Arthur tried to sit up a little straighter. He didn’t want Merlin to pity him. He gave a quick nod and Merlin returned it. With one last look, Merlin disappeared into Cenred’s tent.

He was gone for nearly an hour. Arthur assumed he was having supper with Cenred again, as Arthur had witnessed on the first night of the march. That meal had been uncomfortable to watch; Cenred holding forth while Merlin fidgeted where he sat, discomfort written in every line of his body. There had been that strange exchange in which Cenred suggested Merlin stay in the tent, and made a rather cryptic reference to Camelot’s conquering. Arthur hadn’t fully understood the subtext but he had noticed how ill Merlin had looked.

Merlin looked only determined now, giving the tent a quick furtive glance before hurrying over to where Arthur was tied.

“I got this,” he said, holding out his hand to show the nuts and dried meat within. “It’s not much but-”

Arthur opened his mouth without hesitation. He needed to keep his strength up and a little food was better than nothing. It was still strange to have Merlin feed him, but no stranger than it had been last time. He couldn’t help but again notice the brush of Merlin’s fingers against his lips, however.

Merlin looked equally distracted and therein lay their downfall. Neither noticed Cenred’s presence until his shadow fell directly on them.

“Well, well, well.”

Merlin whirled round and shot into a standing position but the damage was already done. Cenred’s eyes flickered over them both.

“This is becoming something of a pattern, isn’t it?”

Cenred’s voice was very hard and despite himself Arthur felt uneasy. He looked to Merlin only to find the other had straightened his shoulders, lips set in a grim line. Arthur recognised the expression on his face with a faint sinking feeling. It was the same one Morgana used to get when she was about to disagree with Uther in front of the whole court; a gleam in her eye that said she knew she was about to bring a world of trouble on herself and she didn’t really care.

“It was only scraps,” Merlin said stoutly and Cenred’s eyes widened in disbelief.

“I told you in the tent he was to have no supper.”

“It wasn’t supper,” Merlin said. “Just scraps.”

Cenred made a sudden violent movement towards Merlin and Arthur bit his tongue in an attempt not to protest. He had a feeling any intervention from him would not work in Merlin’s favour.

Merlin didn’t flinch, not even when Cenred took a hold of his neck in a grip that was clearly painful.

“You grow bold, little starling,” he said through gritted teeth. “I normally find myself amused by your antics but my patience wears thin tonight. So I will give you one chance to apologise.”

Merlin twisted a little in Cenred’s grip but said nothing. Cenred’s eyes darkened.

“Right,” he hissed.

In one quick movement his free hand tugged at Merlin’s cloak hard enough to pull the garment off completely. Arthur thought he saw a flicker of panic in Merlin’s eyes before Cenred pushed him to the ground.

“You there!”

Cenred beckoned two men from the nearby encampment. As they came close, he gestured to a piece of rope coiled by his tent.

“My servant wishes to throw his lot in with our captive,” he said coldly, his eyes locked on Merlin’s. “Kindly tie him up with the prince so that he may spend the night reflecting on this choice.”

Arthur felt rage heat his blood as the rope was wrapped roughly around Merlin’s neck. The men dragged him forward to attach it to the tent pole and Merlin choked a little. Arthur turned back to glare at Cenred, who was watching dispassionately. He made a tutting noise in Merlin’s direction and bent to pick up the cloak from the ground.

“You can have this back when you’ve learned to behave yourself,” he said, and then he was gone, stalking back into his tent and shutting the flap behind him.

Arthur waited for the guards to walk away before he turned his attention to Merlin. He was tied on the other side of the pole, his back to Arthur. Arthur was relieved to see the rope was not choking him now that Merlin wasn’t moving, but it still looked uncomfortably tight.

“Are you alright?” he asked quietly and Merlin nodded.

“I’ve slept in worse places.”

Arthur sighed, because he believed Merlin and the thought was dispiriting to say the least.

He didn’t dare say any more, for fear that Cenred or someone else heard them. It was dangerous for Merlin to be seen talking to him and Arthur did not want to bring further repercussions down on Merlin’s head.

He tried to plan instead, though it was hard to think in the biting cold. Various people passed by too, openly gawping or gloating at the sight of the prince tethered up like a dog in the snow. It rankled Arthur’s pride, even though he knew it was foolish. Merlin barely seemed to notice; his eyes were shut and his breathing even, although Arthur did not think him asleep. Maybe Merlin was just used to being stared at after all this time spent doing magic for Cenred.

Dark had fallen by the time the encampment quietened down, although the moon was unusually bright, illuminating the clearing a little. It was even colder than before and Arthur felt an almost physical jealousy when he saw one man passing by with a clutch of blankets. That same man glanced at Merlin in surprise, his brow wrinkling before he walked on. When he returned only half an hour later, the whole camp was silent and still. He veered close to the tent pole and Arthur tensed automatically as something hit the floor near Merlin’s feet. Then he squinted in the moonlight and saw that it was a blanket.

“Whoops, clumsy me. I’ll have to come back and pick that one up in the morning,” the man said. Then he tipped Merlin a wink and hurried on, vanishing into the darkness beyond the treeline.

“Who was that?” Arthur asked, unable to help himself.

“Eric,” Merlin said, sounding surprised. “He looks after the horses. I pushed him out of the way the other day when one of the stallions nearly kicked him.”

“Looks like he remembered your kindness,” Arthur said.

There was a pause and then Merlin shifted in the darkness. He worked his way round the pole to where Arthur was sitting and pressed into his side.

“What are you-”

“We can share it,” Merlin said. He unfurled the blanket and wrapped it over the two of them as best he could. It was wide and pleasingly thick and though it wouldn’t do much for their faces, it would protect the rest of them from the worst of the chill.

Enough people were asleep that Arthur felt he could risk speaking again, albeit quietly.

“I have to say, your king doesn’t know much about hospitality,” he said and Merlin laughed softly.

“He’s not _my_ king. But I agree the accommodation leaves a lot to be desired.”

“And the food is appalling.”

“The weather is dreadful.”

“The transportation is shocking.”

“Speak for yourself,” Merlin said airily. “I’m on the king’s finest steed.”

“Only fitting for an equine expert such as yourself,” Arthur said. “Please do tell me all about what colour it is and whether it like apples or not.”

“I doubt it does; it’s one of them boring war horses. You’d probably love it,” Merlin said cheekily.

“A mount is only as good as its rider, Merlin,” Arthur said primly. “I imagine most of them take issue with you.”

Merlin snorted.

“Well, I won’t be riding it again tomorrow in any case. That was supposedly a privilege rarely granted to the likes of me.”

“It’s a privilege to ride next to Cenred all day?” Arthur said dryly. “How devastated you must be to lose such fine company.”

“Heartbroken,” Merlin agreed. “Where else will I find such scintillating conversation?”

“There’s a twig over there that might do the trick.”

Merlin laughed again and Arthur was close enough to feel it vibrate in his chest. He liked to hear Merlin laugh. Even if he knew the lightness of their conversation was only a cover for the darker problems at hand.

Merlin started to ask him about the horses in Camelot when Arthur was seized by another coughing fit. This one lasted much longer than the previous ones and his throat was raw by the time he subsided.

Merlin’s hand was gentle on his arm.

“Alright?”

Morgana tended to give Arthur a hard time for refusing to admit he was sick, and he had no intention of doing so now. There was no way Merlin could help so what was the point of complaining?

“Something in my throat,” he said bracingly.

Merlin sighed, clearly not believing it.

“I could try to get you a cloak tomorrow…”

“What and risk Cenred finding out? You’ve gotten in enough trouble for helping me already.”

Arthur didn’t mean to sound quite so abrasive, but he’d been feeling guilty since the medicine incident. Tonight’s episode had only solidified that guilt.

“I wanted to help,” Merlin said simply. “Don’t take that on yourself.”

Arthur found himself a little lost for words. Very occasionally when he talked to Merlin, he had the odd feeling they’d known each other a long time, that there was some mutual understanding between them that belied the short period they’d been acquainted.

He still wasn’t sure why Merlin would risk so much to aid him, though.

“Why did you defy Cenred tonight?” he asked.

“Sick of cowering,” Merlin replied and Arthur heard a world of hurt behind that short statement.

“There’s nothing cowardly about doing what you have to for survival,” he said gently.

Merlin made a sceptical noise.

“I’m not sure you would know, sire,” he said and Arthur was silent awhile.

“My father used to be very angry,” he said at last. “When I was younger. Morgana would always speak up against him, even if it meant she’d be punished. I… I usually did what he said. Even when I didn’t agree.”

He had been ashamed of that, looking back in later years. He wished he hadn’t appeased his father so often, even though at the time he’d been scared to consider the alternative. Uther was so quick to quarrel and his disappointment was like a lead weight on Arthur’s back.

“That’s different,” Merlin said, and his voice was soft. “He’s your father.”

“Yes, it was different,” Arthur said. “My father never raised a hand in violence against me. Never imprisoned me or tied me up or branded me. And I still chose not to defy him most of the time. For you to stand up to Cenred today, even if it’s something you have rarely done… it shows great courage.”

Merlin shifted a little next to him.

“Thank you,” he said quietly and Arthur could hear the sincerity in his tone.

A particularly strong gust of wind blew and they both shivered.

“Here,” Arthur said and pulled Merlin a little closer to him. He was used to conserving warmth with his knights on cold evenings in this way.

From Merlin’s quiet noise of surprise, it seemed he was not used to this way of conserving warmth at all. Arthur might have pulled away, if not for the fact that Merlin’s skin was icy to the touch.

“It’s better if we share body heat,” he said quietly, not wanting to force it on Merlin. To his relief Merlin relaxed against him then, nodding.  After a few seconds, Arthur carefully wrapped his arm around Merlin’s shoulders.

It was warmer with less space between them, and they could wrap the blanket tighter around themselves. Arthur tried to remember that this was a perfectly normal way to sleep in low temperatures, and ignore how aware he felt of Merlin’s body pressed up against his own.

He wondered if Merlin was thinking along the same lines, for his voice was a little husky when he spoke again.

“If I had my magic…”

“You could do that warming spell that Morgana loves,” Arthur said. “ _Hætan_ or whatever.”

“I don’t actually know any spells like that,” Merlin said, a little sadly. “They only teach me battle magic. I know a spell to heat someone’s blood inside them till it boils-”

“Less said about that the better,” Arthur put in quickly, shuddering. “But didn’t you cast spells before you were taken?”

“Yes,” Merlin said thoughtfully. “But I never knew any. My mother didn’t have magic and there wasn’t exactly anyone we could ask about it. Whenever I did magic back then it was just… instinctive.”

“How?”

“Like… if I was cold, I would just look at the fire and it would flare up. Unless there was no wood left, I couldn’t create things but I sort of… if I needed something, I could usually make it happen.”

“Without casting a spell?”

“Yeah.”

Arthur pondered.

“I think that’s rare,” he said. “From what I know. I think most sorcerers need spells.”

“My mother said my father did the same thing.”

Merlin’s voice was a little strained, as though even mentioning his father was difficult. Arthur remembered before when Merlin had said his family was just him and his mother.

“Did he die?” he said delicately.

“Yes,” Merlin said. “Just before I was born. He took ill in the winter and never recovered.”

Arthur reached out under the blanket to pat Merlin’s arm. He knew what it was to lose a parent before you could even remember them.

“I’d like to learn a spell to make things sweet,” Merlin said abruptly. “Like tea and sour fruit and old bread.”

Arthur recognised the attempt to change the subject.

“I have some wonderful news for you, Merlin. It’s called honey,” he said and managed to raise a chuckle from Merlin.

“Better than that, prat. Even more sweet. And I want a spell to wash dishes. And one to clean floors and one to lay fires. And one to make flowers grow.”

“Sefa can do that,” Arthur said. “No one else can get the hang of it. She makes posies for the knights to go courting with.”

He realised there was a time he would have made fun of Merlin for wanting a spell to grow flowers, but how could he when he heard the longing in Merlin’s voice? Merlin had been forced to use his magic for pain and violence for so long, who wouldn’t want the chance to make something blossom and live instead?

“I’d like that,” Merlin said. Then, playfully: “Does she make posies for you to go courting with too?”

“I don’t court much,” Arthur admitted, with an unusual candour. There had been a time when he’d thought of Elena in that way, but his ardour had faded into friendship. Equally there’d been the odd dalliance with Gwaine over the years but it never meant anything more to either of them than a night of fun.

He explained this briefly to Merlin, who seemed surprised.

“Your father doesn’t mind you courting men?”

“Men, no. Gwaine, almost certainly yes. I never told him about that. But male consorts are not unheard of in Camelot, even if they are rare. My father would prefer me to marry a woman but I believe he will accept whoever I choose.”

The old Uther perhaps wouldn’t have, but his father had changed so much after the past few years. He had certainly been turning a very pointed blind eye to Morgana’s unusually close relationship with Gwen of late.

He was poised to ask Merlin the same question when he remembered Merlin’s history, and the fact that he was unlikely to have ever experienced anything similar.

Merlin seemed to read his mind.

“I would that I had any stories to offer in return,” he said wryly.

“Courting is overrated,” Arthur said readily. “I prefer a good swordfight.”

“You would.”

They were silent for a while and then Merlin spoke again.

“There was a boy once. But then Cenred… it didn’t end well.”

Arthur felt his heart clench a little.

“I’m sorry to hear it,” he said carefully because he knew Merlin didn’t want pity.

Merlin shrugged, the movement jostling Arthur’s shoulder.

“I’m not sure I’ve much to offer anyway.”

This, at least, Arthur could answer.

“Don’t be stupid,” he said. “You’re quick-witted, you’re resourceful, you’re not bad looking. And I’m sure there’s someone out there who finds extreme clumsiness endearing.”

“Why, Arthur,” Merlin said teasingly. “I didn’t know you felt that way.”

“Pipe down, Merlin,” Arthur said, glad the darkness could cover his blush. “I’m only saying you have options.”

“I fear you may be underestimating my bad luck in love, sire,” Merlin said and his tone was sad again. “The last boy I kissed was banished on pain of death.”

“And what of the ones you kissed before that?” Arthur said quickly, praying that they weren’t all dead by Cenred’s hand or something equally hideous.

Merlin laughed then.

“Only my friend Will in Ealdor, to see what kissing was like. We were twelve. He didn’t like it much.”

Arthur laughed too.

“My first kiss was with a kitchen maid when I was eleven and her mouth tasted like pickled onion.”

“Lovely,” Merlin said.

“Traumatic, more like. I didn’t dare kiss anyone again until I was fifteen. That one was much better.”

Arthur still remembered kissing Gwen behind the smithy one summer morning, the softness of her lips and the sweet lavender smell of her skin. He’d nursed an affection for her for quite some time after, until it became evident she only had eyes for his older sister.

“I might never kiss anyone again,” Merlin said wistfully and Arthur rolled his eyes.

“Enough of this self-pitying nonsense.”

He reached out in the dark to take Merlin by the chin and then planted a quick kiss square on his lips.

 

 

“There you go. Now you can tell the world you’ve been kissed by a prince and mmph-”

Merlin’s lips had somehow found his again, pressing into him with an urgency that made Arthur lose his breath. Some part of him felt he should push Merlin away but a much larger part of him wanted to melt into it, to give himself over to the pleasure of Merlin’s kiss.

It was clear he hadn’t had much experience in kissing but that didn’t matter; there was something lovely about the hesitant pressure of his lips against Arthur’s. One hand came shyly up to run through Arthur’s hair and Arthur responded in kind, bringing his own to rest on Merlin’s cheek.

His mouth tasted like berries and a hint of something smoky and although his lips were rough and chapped, the feel of them was tender.

They kissed for a long time, coming up for air every now and then before joining back together. When they were finally too sleepy to stay awake any longer, Arthur wrapped his arm back around Merlin’s shoulder, and Merlin tucked his head into Arthur’s chest. Arthur nuzzled his hair, breathing Merlin’s scent in.

They drifted off like that, huddled tight beneath the blanket, limbs tangled together as if they were any other couple sleeping close on a cold night.

 

Arthur had trouble opening his eyes when he awoke again. They were stuck together and when he wrenched them apart, they felt sore and tired. It didn’t take long to realise the rest of him wasn’t in much better shape. The chill had taken hold of his body and his throat was tight and painful. His head ached and his limbs felt shaky and weak.

He shut his eyes again, exhaustion overtaking him. The next time he opened them, he became aware of a weight pressed up against him, warming his side. He leaned into it, still blinking, and then the weight shifted a little.

“I might have known.”

All of Arthur’s sleep haziness dissipated in an instant. He looked up to see Cenred standing over him and it was with a heavy sensation he realised that the warm weight at his side was Merlin, and that they had been caught in an entirely compromising position.

He heard a little snuffling noise and felt Merlin nuzzle deeper into his neck. He wasn’t awake yet; he had no idea that he was making things worse. Arthur tried to push Merlin away from his body but Merlin clung on like a limpet, sighing softly.

“No, let him sleep.”

Cenred’s voice was not as cold or hard as it had been yesterday; it was back to the mocking tone that Arthur was familiar with.

“He looks so innocent like this, doesn’t he? You’d scarcely believe the things he’s done.”

“The things you made him do,” Arthur retorted.

“Oh, princeling,” Cenred said, with an odd, furtive smile. “You really are oblivious. I’d have thought even you would have guessed by now.”

“Guessed what?” Arthur said hotly.

Merlin stirred beside him and Cenred’s smile grew wider.

“Wake up, little starling. We were just discussing you.”

Merlin turned his face a little further into Arthur, little puffs of air heating Arthur’s neck as he yawned. Arthur could pinpoint the exact moment Merlin awoke properly because he froze against Arthur, his whole body going rigid. Then, he sat up, scrambling to put distance between them in a futile attempt to repair the damage already done.

“Now, now, no need for any of that,” Cenred said, almost kindly. “We’re just having a friendly chat. I thought it was high time that Prince Arthur learned a little more about you. Seeing as you’ve become so… _close_.”

Merlin’s eyes were wide and frightened and Arthur didn’t quite know what was going on. But he knew he didn’t want to play Cenred’s games.

“I’m not interested,” he said, affecting a bored tone. “Is it time for breakfast yet?”

“Oh, but I think you will be interested,” Cenred said softly. “What do you say, Merlin? Do you think it’s time to tell Arthur the truth?”

Arthur would have missed it if he hadn’t been so close to Merlin; the tiny unmistakeable shake of Merlin’s head.

“You don’t? But I think he has a right to know.”

Merlin looked like he was tense enough to shatter and it made Arthur wonder in spite of himself. What did Cenred have to say that Merlin was so afraid of?

“I don’t care what it is,” he said, though his voice was a little less sure than before and the gleam in Cenred’s eye said he’d noticed.

“I think you do. And I’d hate to keep you in suspense. You see, Merlin here. He’s not _just_ a servant. And he’s not _just_ a sorcerer, either.”

“Cenred.”

Merlin’s voice was close to pleading. For a moment, Cenred didn’t speak, just stared at Merlin, like a cat before it devours its prey.

Then he turned his gaze on Arthur.

“He’s my consort.”

For a moment Arthur didn’t understand, like there was some new meaning to that word that he’d never heard before. Then he remembered the conversation in the tent and the proprietary way Cenred spoke to Merlin, the way he looked at him, the way he touched him…

But Arthur still didn’t believe it until he turned to Merlin and saw the shock in his eyes. Shock that was quickly replaced by shame.

“Yes, it’s true,” Cenred said languidly. “Merlin promised himself to me three years ago. The day I become King of Camelot is the day he takes his place at my side.”

He adopted a hurt expression.

“So you can imagine how it wounds me, seeing the two of you like this.”

He gestured between them.

“I don’t blame you, princeling. He’s bolder than he looks and he’s played the whore for men like you before. I thought I’d broken him of that but it seems he just can’t resist.”

Merlin had gone completely white beside Arthur. His hands were fisted in the blanket, his body very still. 

“I can’t fault you for wanting him.”

Cenred crouched down to caress Merlin’s cheek.

“He is a pretty one. I imagine I’d have no shortage of offers if I took to lending him out but I’m just so terribly possessive, you see. Although it might be a good way to keep him sated, since he obviously craves more than I’ve been giving him.”

Merlin’s eyes were staring into the middle distance, as though he was looking at something far away. Cenred gave him a gentle pat on the cheek.

“Something to consider for the future, perhaps,” he said. “Anyway! Work to be done before all that.”

Arthur flinched when Cenred withdrew a knife from his pocket but he only used it to sever the rope around Merlin’s neck.

“Come on, then,” he said, tugging Merlin to his feet. Merlin stumbled a little and Cenred righted him, hand possessive on his shoulder.

They headed towards the treeline. Merlin was hunched small, closed in on himself, as though he wanted nothing more than to disappear. Arthur watched them go, with an ache in his chest that had nothing to do with the winter chill.

  

 

 

 

Merlin did not see Arthur again until they stopped on the march for the midday meal. No longer in Cenred’s favour, Merlin was not forced to ride at the front. He’d been left to lead a pack horse somewhere towards the rear of the party but he had not looked behind him once, not wishing to catch Arthur’s eye.

It would perhaps have been less painful if Cenred had told Arthur that Merlin was the dragon. That was where he had assumed Cenred had been heading, it never occurred to him that there another secret Arthur didn’t know.

He couldn’t bear to imagine what Arthur thought of him now. He was the one who had initiated the real kiss; he was the one who had woken up pressed against Arthur. Then Cenred had told Arthur that Merlin was bold, that he had whored for men like Arthur before.

Arthur must think him cheap now, nothing more than a promiscuous servant who had used the prince to satisfy his urges.

Merlin wanted to cry but the tears would not come. So he kept his head low and refused to look at anyone. When Myror sent him to the back to get more water skins, he stared at the ground the entire way.

The skins happened to be next to the cart Arthur was tied to. Merlin gritted his teeth and walked over, hoping against hope he would not be seen.

“Merlin!” a voice hissed.

Merlin did not look round.

“Merlin, come here!”

There was no one else in their immediate proximity. He hoped Arthur would not be so foolhardy otherwise. But still, he refused to turn.

“Gods,” he heard Arthur mutter, with a frustrated exhale.

He didn’t speak again for a while, and Merlin picked the skins up quickly, eager to leave before Arthur tried afresh.

He was making his way back towards the path when he heard his name called yet again.

“I know what Cenred was trying to do,” Arthur said loudly and Merlin almost jumped in surprise. “I am not stupid, or easily manipulated, whatever he thinks. He wanted to humiliate you, to make it so I would be too disgusted or embarrassed to ever talk to you again.”

Merlin’s heart was thumping in his chest.

“He’s misjudged the kind of man I am, and so have you if you think I’d fall for that.”

Arthur’s tone was tinged with disappointment and it was that which made Merlin turn at last.

“I wasn’t playing you,” he said quietly, ears red with mortification.

“I know that, you idiot,” Arthur scoffed. “I don’t think you’d even know how.”

Merlin shuffled on his feet.

“I did promise myself to him,” he said in a rush. “But not because I want to be with him. I was young and I was scared and I couldn’t stand being hurt anymore. I regret it every day but I… I…”

“Merlin.”

Arthur’s tone was soft but firm.

“We talked about this. There’s no shame in surviving.”

Merlin nodded, even if he couldn’t quite believe it. He still felt exposed in front of Arthur, newly vulnerable.

“I should get back-” he began to say, stopping short when Arthur began to cough.

It was worse than the fit he’d had last night. Much worse. Now that Merlin had a chance to really look at him, Arthur looked terrible. His face was grey, his eyes were red, and his hair was damp with sweat. When Merlin rushed over to support him after a particularly violent cough, his skin was warm to the touch.

“I think you’re getting a fever,” Merlin said anxiously.

Arthur waved a hand.

“It’ll pass,” he said between coughs.

But it didn’t. That night Merlin could hear Arthur coughing even twenty yards away by the fire, and he knew more than to expect Cenred might give him some water.

In the morning, Arthur looked like he could barely see straight. The heat was coming off him in waves and his eyes kept drifting shut. Merlin was sent to walk at the back with Arthur that day, with Tauren to keep a watchful eye on both of them. Although it quickly became clear that the prince was not up to walking at all.

“He’s sick!” Merlin snapped angrily after Tauren had roughly hauled Arthur to his feet the third time he stumbled.

“Tell someone who cares,” Tauren said brusquely.

“Cenred might care if we get held up any more,” Merlin shot back.

Tauren squared up to him then, fists clenched threateningly. Merlin stared back, refusing to be intimidated.

“Put him on the cart,” he said. “There’s nothing on it anyway and we’ll be able to move a lot faster.”

Tauren shoved Merlin, hard.

“You don’t tell me what to do,” he hissed.

Arthur chose that moment to trip again, falling to his knees. Merlin wished he could say the prince did it on purpose but Arthur seemed to be totally out of it, his eyes glazed and unfocussed.

Tauren growled in frustration and walked over to pull Arthur up again. He paused, eyes narrowed, and then made a decision.

“Fine, he can ride on the cart. On your own head be it if Cenred finds out.”

He heaved Arthur unceremoniously onto the cart and then walked back to his horse. As a punishment he refused to let Merlin have any food or water when they stopped to rest, leaving him tied up while the others sat and ate.

Merlin didn’t care. It was a small price to pay. He didn’t think he could bear to see Arthur collapse again.

When they made camp for the night, Arthur could barely stand. He was burning up and his tunic was damp with sweat. Merlin followed the guards dragging him across to Cenred’s tent, though they were more holding the prince up than anything else. Cenred was in conversation with Enmyria and Myror but he looked up when the party arrived. The guards gave Arthur a little shove forward and he swayed for a moment, before collapsing to the ground.

“The princeling is looking a little worse for the wear,” Cenred remarked and all of Merlin’s frustrations bubbled up inside of him.

“He’s seriously ill!”

Cenred raised an eyebrow and Merlin forced himself to calm down, for he could not shout at the king again without repercussions.

“His fever, it’s… he needs Edwin. He might die otherwise.”

Merlin was trying to keep the fear from his voice so that Cenred wouldn’t see how invested he was in Arthur’s survival. Their waking position the previous morning had been incriminating enough.

Cenred looked thoughtful, crouching a little to place his hand on Arthur’s brow. After a few seconds he stood and looked directly at Merlin.

“He might. And why is that my concern, little starling?”

“You need him alive!” Merlin shouted, no longer caring what he was revealing in his panic.

Cenred cocked his head.

“But do I? He’s served his primary purpose. I wasn’t exactly planning on offering him a dukedom in the new kingdom. Why not tie up loose ends now?”

“Because… because…”

Merlin’s mind worked desperately but he couldn’t think of a single thing.

“Sire, if I may,” Enmyria cut in. “I believe the prince may still have a role to play in the conquering of Camelot. If you were to show him to his people one last time before slitting his throat… the effect on morale could be quite devastating.”

Beside her, Myror nodded.

“It makes sense, sire. Certainly Uther and the witch Morgana would be thrown off quite drastically,” he put in.

Merlin dared to breathe a little as he watched Cenred consider.

“You speak with good purpose, Enmyria,” Cenred said at last. “The public slaughter of the princeling would certainly send a message.”

He clicked at a nearby servant.

“Fetch me Edwin.”

Merlin almost sank to the ground in relief but instead he forced himself to stand aside, so as not to irritate Cenred and make him change his mind.

Edwin looked vaguely disgruntled to see he had been called to tend the captive prince but he knelt down beside him anyway.

“How much do you want me to do?”

“Just bring his fever down,” Cenred said idly. “No need for excessive measures.”

It would be a matter of moments for Edwin to cure all of Arthur’s symptoms completely but Merlin bit his lip. He was pushing his luck already and he’d settle for just knowing that the prince was safe from death.

Edwin placed his hand on Arthur’s head and muttered a quick spell. Merlin didn’t know if it was just his hopeful imagination but Arthur seemed to look a little better right away.

“Put him in the tent,” Cenred instructed the two guards and then turned to Merlin.

“You can stay up all night and play nursemaid since you’re so keen to have him live.”

Merlin nodded, hoping his expression was suitably humble. Cenred shook his head.

“He’ll be dead within a week,” he stated flatly. “I’d say you shouldn’t get too attached but I think that ship has rather sailed, hasn’t it?”

He placed one heavy hand on Merlin’s shoulder.

“Your first loyalty is to me,” he said intently. “And if I tell you to fly up in the air and drop him down to go splat in Camelot’s courtyard, your only question to me should be ‘from how high?’”

Merlin felt a wave of revulsion go through him.

“I hope we understand each other,” Cenred said and let him go.

Merlin scurried away to the tent, sick to his stomach. There was no time to dwell on what was to come. All he could do was focus on getting Arthur well again.

He tried to clear his mind of all other thoughts as he made his way to crouch next to Arthur, who looked to be unconscious. The guards had left him lying on the ground rather than tied up, by some small mercy. Merlin contemplated for a moment before dragging Arthur to the side of the tent. If he was out of the way, Cenred might just forget about ordering him to be tied again.

He felt Arthur’s forehead and was relieved to find that it was only faintly warm. The sweating also seemed to have stopped entirely, although Arthur’s breathing still sounded a little laboured. Merlin didn’t have many supplies in his bag, although he had taken a few small medicines from Edwin’s chamber before departure. He sorted through them to find a tincture of willowbark and a little piece of cloth to use as a compress. He’d filled his water skin that afternoon so he took it out to wet the cloth, before placing it on Arthur’s forehead.

The prince’s position on the ground looked far from comfortable but Merlin didn’t dare steal a blanket or a pillow from Cenred’s bedroll. After some deliberation, he crossed his legs and then lifted Arthur’s head into his lap, hoping to at least offer a little cushioning. Arthur didn’t stir and Merlin pushed the sweat-damp hair back from his forehead before wetting the cloth again.

He didn’t know what else there was to do. He could give Arthur the tincture when he woke but that was all he had. Still, he could feed the prince water in the night and make sure he did not dehydrate or cough himself senseless. He would live now that his fever was down. Of that Merlin was fairly certain.

He found himself stroking his fingers through Arthur’s hair, much like he had the night they attacked the village. Arthur looked soft in sleep, the lines around his eyes and mouth smoothed out. His lips were slightly parted and Merlin felt a sudden strange tingle, remembering how they had felt against his own.

It was a foolish thought and one that could not be further entertained. Merlin thought instead of the threat Cenred had just made. He had only granted Arthur a temporary stay of execution. If the invasion of Camelot went ahead as planned, the prince would be killed.

Merlin would never agree to kill Arthur. He knew that much. No matter how much pain they subjected him to as the dragon, he would not be swayed.

But if he was not in dragon form, the choice would not belong to him. The spell would be forced from his lips and he would be powerless to stop it.

The thought was so chilling that Merlin couldn’t breathe for a few seconds. He could not allow that to happen. He had to find a way to help Arthur escape.

Still stroking the prince’s hair, he went methodically through all the plans he had discarded back at the castle when Arthur first arrived. They still seemed as futile as they had then. The only faint possibility was in the idea of warning someone else. They were close to Camelot now and Merlin knew there would be regular patrols out looking for the stolen prince. If a scout happened upon them and Merlin could speak to them… Surely there would be a sorcerer in Camelot powerful enough to break the collar around Arthur’s neck and steal away with him. This Morgause, perhaps? Merlin could tell her all he knew about it and create an opportunity for her to sneak unnoticed into the camp…

It wasn’t a solid plan but it was the best Merlin was able to make. The only other option was to wait for the battle of Camelot to begin. Perhaps in the chaos and the clamour, Merlin could find a way to set Arthur free. He could maybe even fly Arthur into the citadel, if he was quick enough to do it before Cenred noticed.

None of these plans extended to the aftermath of Arthur’s escape and Merlin knew exactly why that was.

He would not be around to see it.

His decision to free Arthur was tantamount to suicide. Cenred would never forgive him. Even if he decided to keep Merlin around long enough to use Rún’s power, Merlin would not cooperate. If he helped Cenred destroy Camelot, his only prize would be a lifetime of misery as Cenred’s consort. His magic perpetually bound and used for wickedness, his dragon form simply a means of consolidating more power for Cenred’s tyrannical rule.

Three years ago, he had sworn to stay alive. He had reasoned that the day of Camelot’s conquering might never come, that he might have been rescued or escaped by then, that Cenred could be long dead.

It had been the rational decision to make and yet none of these things had come to pass. Merlin was no more willing to be Cenred’s consort now than he had been then. And he would not see Arthur dead or Camelot fall because of him.

Merlin was not as afraid as he thought he might be. His only regret was that he would never see his mother again, never tell her how much he loved her. Or, that he had not met Arthur under different circumstances, in a life where they could have been together.

He wanted to set Arthur free. He wanted to do one good thing before he died. That would have to be enough for him.

Cradling the prince’s head in his lap, Merlin waited for morning to come.

 

 

 

 

Arthur felt better. His cough had not abated and his head was still a little thick and sore but he was no longer burning up with fever or so weak he couldn’t stand.

Merlin had nursed him all night. Several times Arthur had woken to find Merlin helping him sit up to take a sip of water, or to swallow a gulp of tincture. The chill of the ground had been offset by the warmth of Merlin’s lap, and he didn’t think he had imagined the hand that smoothed and stroked his hair.

He appreciated such comfort more than he could say, especially with the rising dread that accompanied the new dawn. They were perhaps only two or three day’s walk from Camelot now.

Arthur didn’t know what to do. It was out of his hands now. He could only hope that his father and Morgana were prepared for the fight to come. They would have heard about the dragon burning the village and would likely know that an attack was imminent. Whether they thought Arthur already dead or whether they were still holding out hope…

Arthur knew that Cenred most likely planned to kill him before the fight had even begun. Unless he sought to ransom Arthur, but it was likely that Uther’s reputation preceded him. Cenred would know that Uther put nothing above the safety of his people, not even his own son.

Arthur did not blame his father for that; in fact he agreed. It was the pragmatic decision. The only thing Arthur wanted was to get hold of a sword so he could go down fighting. If he managed to dispatch a few of the bastards in the process, so much the better.

Arthur did not give up hope of surviving, for he knew that it was a poor warrior who did not plan for every contingency. But he spent the day’s walk thinking of all the people he would miss when he was gone; wise old Gaius and grumpy Morgause and ridiculous Gwaine and gentle Gwen. His father, of course, the man who had taught him all he knew and more besides. And Morgana, his beautiful shining sister. If Camelot survived and he did not, he knew she would make an exemplary heir to the throne.

He loved them all and his heart was full of grief at the thought of leaving them. He could only hope that if there was a life after this one, Leon would be there waiting for him.

 

When they made camp that night, he was bound as usual in Cenred’s tent and Enmyria came as she always did to reset the boundary spell. Arthur didn’t know how he was expected to escape with his hands tied so tight and his body still shaken from his recent sickness, but he supposed he should consider their caution a compliment.

She was halfway through the ritual, hands on Arthur’s collar and her eyes glowing gold, when there was an almighty bang from outside the tent. She startled, turning to look through the tent flap, and her eyes flashed in alarm.

Arthur craned his head and saw what appeared to be a tree on fire, the flames as voracious as if it had been burning for minutes. Enmyria leapt to her feet, mumbling a curse, and hurried through the tent flap.

He could barely see what happened next in all the commotion, although it seemed that Myror was the one to act in the end, producing a jet of water from thin air to douse the flames. The hubbub abated, although many stayed to shake their heads and wonder aloud what had occurred. Arthur even caught a few mutterings about Camelot and his heart leapt a little in hope, although for the life of him he could not see why one of his sorcerers would announce their presence so boldly by burning a tree.

He kept his neck craned for further magic but it seemed that none was forthcoming. It was nearly an hour before he stopped looking out and it took him that long to realise that Enmyria had left the tent before the boundary spell ritual had been complete.

His entire body came alive with adrenaline. His head began to spin and he had to force himself to stay calm. This was it, surely, this was his chance. There would not be another like this. 

Fingers trembling with excitement, Arthur began to plan. The cover of night would be best, it would perhaps only be an hour more before the whole camp settled in to sleep. He would have to sneak past Cenred, to keep quiet long enough to bypass the guards on night watch. And of course his hands would need to be untied from the tent pole.

But Arthur wasn’t worried about that last part. He would not be going alone. Merlin would be coming with him.

It wasn’t even a question in his mind. He wasn’t leaving Merlin here to be abused and coerced by these madmen. He definitely wasn’t leaving him here to become the unwilling consort of Cenred.

Merlin had helped Arthur and now, Arthur was going to help him. He’d get him back to Camelot and they’d find a way to break the magic on his bond somehow. When they defeated Cenred’s army, Merlin could start a new life there. Free to only use his magic when he wanted, free to learn spells he chose to learn, free to live without fear.

He would couch it as a practical decision, if his father raised any qualms about Arthur bringing an enemy servant home with him. Merlin’s magic was going to be used against Camelot, it was much better to remove him from Cenred’s grasp and have him fight on Camelot’s side. But it was far from practical in Arthur’s head. He felt something for Merlin he’d never felt for another human being before, and though he couldn’t quite understand why, he was not inclined to doubt it. He would repay his debt for Merlin’s kindness and then if there was a possible future where they might be together in other ways… Arthur wouldn’t say no.

He was getting ahead of himself. He had to concentrate on tonight. He needed a chance to speak to Merlin alone, preferably without Cenred around.

Luck was on his side. When Cenred arrived at the tent a little later with Merlin in tow, he paused in front of the flap. Arthur heard Myror’s low voice, no doubt discussing what had happened before with the burning tree. To his delight, Merlin slipped from Cenred’s side and entered the tent.

“I brought an apple-” he began, hastening to Arthur’s side, and Arthur shook his head impatiently.

“No time for that! Enmyria was distracted when resetting the boundary spell. She never finished the ritual, Merlin. _I haven’t been bound_.”

Merlin’s mouth dropped open in surprise and then a wild sort of hope flooded his features.

“Truly?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Then it has to be tonight,” Merlin said, his eyes still wide in shock. “I can… I’ll check the positions of the night guards. Cenred is a sound sleeper, I’m sure we can find a way to… the Darkling Woods are not far if-”

“Hush,” Arthur said because Merlin could barely string a sentence together. “Don’t fret. This is our chance. We can do this.”

“Yes. Yes,” Merlin said and he reached out to clasp Arthur’s knee. “I’ll get you out of here tonight.”

“And I you,” Arthur said, a smile tugging at his lips. “We go together.”

Merlin’s face fell.

“You would… you would bring me with you?”

“Of course,” Arthur said. “There is a place for you in Camelot, Merlin, and I will take you there.”

Merlin smiled then, although his eyes were very sad.

“I would like to go. More than I could ever say. But, Arthur… I cannot. The brand prevents me from leaving Cenred’s proximity. It will alert him before we’ve even made it to the woods.”

Arthur’s heart sank. He had quite forgotten Merlin was being tracked as well. And this wasn’t a method that needed a boundary spell to sustain it, nor one that could be removed like a collar.

“Is there no way…” he said desperately, already knowing the answer.

“No.”

Merlin’s eyes were bright and his voice was calm.

“I will bring you as far as I can. And I will distract any who come after us.”

Arthur felt tear pricking at his eyes.

“I’ll come back for you,” he said, his voice thick. “I’ll talk to Morgause the second I arrive home, ask her how to break your brand. I’ll bring her back with me and then…”

Merlin nodded. “Alright.”

“You don’t believe me but I will,” Arthur said fiercely. “I will not abandon you. I will come back.”

Suddenly arms were round his body, Merlin’s face pressed into the crook of his neck.

“I am glad to have known you,” Merlin whispered. “Even if for such a short time.”

“Don’t say goodbye,” Arthur said, his throat tight. “It’s not goodbye. I’ll come back, Merlin…”

Merlin didn’t reply. He just clung to Arthur’s body for a few seconds more, and then let go.

“Don’t fall asleep tonight. I’ll come for you when the coast is clear,” he said.

He pressed a kiss to Arthur’s forehead and left the tent.

 

 

It wasn’t hard to stay awake when Arthur’s mind was racing as it was. He felt raw at the notion of leaving Merlin behind. It was all wrong; he felt it in his very bones. He cursed the wickedness of Cenred’s brand even as he held onto the hope that Morgause would know what to do about it. He had no intention of breaking his promise to help Merlin escape, one way or the other.

Cenred had been abed and snoring for at least two hours before there was movement at the tent door. Arthur held his breath as a dark figure crept in, silent as a shadow. He moved wordlessly to Arthur’s back and Arthur felt the chill of metal against his wrists. Merlin must have procured a knife from somewhere and he made quick work of Arthur’s bonds. Arthur stood noiselessly, falling back on years of training sneaking behind enemy lines. He made his way to the tent flap, Merlin following close behind. The moonlight illuminated Cenred’s face for a moment as Arthur lifted the flap, but he slept on.

Outside Merlin took Arthur’s arm, pointing in the direction they should go. Arthur slipped back to let Merlin take the lead, following trustingly. He felt assured that Merlin would have scouted the area, that he knew where the guards were placed and which path would be safe to take.

When they had gone perhaps fifty yards, Merlin pointed to the figure up ahead, facing out towards the horizon. He motioned to the ground and then got down on all fours, and Arthur followed suit.

They crawled the first few minutes and dropped to their stomachs as they neared the watch post, staying as low to the ground as possible. Several times the guard’s eyes swept in their direction and Arthur froze in suspense. But the night was too dark to see far and the guard would be relying more on what he could hear than what he could see. He and Merlin were taking it at a slow enough pace to make scarcely any noise at all.

They didn’t stop crawling until they had gone perhaps another forty yards. The treeline of the Darkling Woods was directly ahead of them and Arthur’s heart thrilled to see it. He was so close to home…

Merlin stopped and turned to Arthur, daring to whisper.

“I can go no further.”

Arthur’s heart dropped again.

“Merlin…”

“It’s alright,” Merlin said and his tone made Arthur want to weep. “You must run as fast as you can, Arthur. Swear to me. Don’t stop until you see the city.”

He slipped the knife from before into Arthur’s pocket, fingers brushing up against Arthur’s hand.

“I...” Arthur’s voice cracked. “I can never thank you enough.”

For a moment Merlin did not respond and then a warm pair of lips met Arthur’s own.

It was a tender, gentle kiss. Arthur tried to convey everything he felt about Merlin in it. And he sealed it with a promise that this was not the last time they would meet.

Eventually they broke apart and Merlin gave Arthur a little push.

“Go now.”

“Soon,” Arthur said feelingly. “I’ll see you soon.”

He turned towards the trees.

A scream of pain spun him back round.

Merlin was doubled over on the ground. Alarmed, Arthur started forward.

“No!”

Merlin threw his hand out to stay Arthur’s course. When he looked up his eyes were yellow, the pupils huge and black. Arthur didn’t understand what was happening.

“Merlin-”

“Run, Arthur!”

Merlin’s voice was rough and desperate, somehow deeper than it had been before. He let out another scream and Arthur watched in disbelief as his outstretched hand began to elongate.

“What’s happening?” he choked out and Merlin growled, a low rumble that sent a shiver down Arthur’s spine.

“I can’t hold it back. Run, Arthur. RUN!”

Arthur watched in horror as the bones in Merlin’s hands began to crack and reform. Long black claws were shooting out of his fingers and his arm was growing thicker and thicker. Arthur took a few paces back, unable to believe his own eyes.

Merlin’s body was growing, rapidly changing shape, getting longer and wider, limbs snapping and twisting, his jaw swelling, his eyes glowing, bones protruding from his back…

Except those weren’t bones. They were wings.

The world came crashing down on Arthur’s head.

Merlin was the dragon.

He ran then, instinctively, hearing the shouts behind him that he knew must belong to Cenred and his men. He couldn’t see, couldn’t think or speak, he could only run and run, letting his legs carry him forward, fleeing the horror of what he had seen.

“Kill him!” he heard Cenred shout and he didn’t dare look back, to see the dragon rising up behind him.

Merlin. The dragon. Merlin.

He was almost upon the treeline now. His lungs were screaming fit to burst and yet he could not, would not stop. He didn’t know if he was imagining the flap of wings at his back but he refused to turn.

He pitched forward into the forest and the trees swallowed him up. There was a flash of light behind him but no flames licked at his heels, no claws slashed at his legs.

Blindly, unthinkingly, Arthur ran.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: battle violence

It was not long after dawn when he saw them.

Arthur hadn’t stopped moving since he’d entered the forest. He’d run until he thought his heart would burst and then he’d slow to a walk until his breath was back and he could run again.

He had fallen several times. His arms and legs were scratched and bruised and his hands were bleeding. His head was so light that he’d lost his footing from sheer dizziness at least twice. But he didn’t stop, even for a second. He didn’t let himself think about anything other than putting one foot in front of the other.

First light came and he heard hoof beats in the distance.

He had drawn the knife from his pocket in an instant. He dropped to a crouch behind the cover of a tree and waited, poised to strike. He would not be captured again. He would kill them all first.

“Who goes there?” a male voice called.

It sounded like there were two riders. Arthur tensed, gripping the knife even tighter in his bloody hand. Was it better to run or stand his ground?

The hoof beats drew closer and Arthur made his decision. He leapt into the open, knife outstretched.

“Arthur?”

“Stay back!” Arthur shouted, his voice tinged with hysteria. “Stay back or I’ll… I’ll…”

“Oh thank the gods,” said another voice, female this time, and there was something so familiar about it. Through squinting eyes Arthur looked up and the two riders came into focus.

It was Elyan and Elena and they were staring at him with naked relief in their eyes.

“Are we near home?” Arthur said and then he collapsed. They were at his side in an instant, Elyan’s hands checking him for injuries, Elena bending close to listen to his breathing.

“It’s alright, sire, you’re safe now,” Elyan said gently.

“Dragon… Cenred… need to tell…” was all Arthur could gasp out.

Neither of them tried to shush him, they understood that he was first and foremost a soldier with a report to make.

“We’ll get you back to the king, you can tell him then,” Elena said. “Can you take a little water?”

They propped Arthur up enough to gulp a mouthful and Elyan checked the back of his head for injuries.

“I think he’s safe to be moved.”

“Put him on your horse,” Elena said. “I’m the faster rider, I’ll go on ahead to prepare the king and Gaius.”

Elyan nodded and moved to Arthur’s back.

“We’re going to lift you now, sire.”

Arthur tried to help but his limbs seemed to have stopped working, he felt boneless and weak. They managed to sit him astride Elyan’s horse and then Elena mounted her own.

“I’m glad to have you back, Arthur,” she said, voice strong, and then she cracked the reins and rode on.

Elyan climbed up behind Arthur, wrapping his arms tight around his torso.

“Lean back on me, sire, that’s it.”

“Have to go… fast…” Arthur mumbled.

“We will,” Elyan said soothingly. “Just lean into me. We’ll be back before you know it.”

The ride was not long but to Arthur it felt like a lifetime. When they finally drew up to the city gates, the guards were gawping.

“I didn’t believe Elena till now,” one said.

“Open the gates,” Elyan snapped and they both jumped to it.

People stared but Arthur barely noticed. He had to get to his father, to Morgana, let them know what was coming…

Elyan seemed to understand, spurring the horse forward. By the time they reached the courtyard Arthur could see Gaius hurrying down the castle steps, a few other guards trailing behind. And in front of them-

“Arthur!”

Arthur’s heart clenched. His father was running full pelt towards him, all kingly propriety dispensed with.

“Father…” he said, forgetting for a moment all the things he had to say about Cenred and the attack. He just wanted to be comforted by his father, like he was a little boy again.

He dismounted and his father caught him, lifting him to the ground and wrapping him in a full body hug. No words were spoken but Arthur could hear the tremor in his father’s breathing. When Uther finally drew back, his eyes were wet with tears.

“I knew you would come home,” he said fiercely. “I never doubted it.”

Arthur’s own eyes were damp and it was all he could do to nod. His legs swayed a little beneath him and his father instantly took his weight.

“Gaius!” Uther shouted, a little frantic. Arthur turned to see the physician hobbling the last few paces towards them, eyes bright with relief.

“It’s good to see you, m’boy,” he said swiftly. “Can you walk with assistance?”

Arthur nodded but two shaky steps forward confirmed this was not the case. His father barely lost a second. He picked Arthur up in his arms, carrying him in a way he hadn’t done since Arthur was very small.

Arthur was too tired to object and a part of him wanted to be held by his father in this way, to feel protected and safe. He let his eyes fall shut for a few moments and then he remembered.

“Father, wait, I have to tell you-”

“In the chambers,” Uther said firmly.

“But I-”

“Hush, Arthur. I won’t listen to a word until you’re at least sitting down.”

Recognising the finality in his father’s voice, Arthur subsided. When they reached Gaius’ chambers, Arthur let himself be ushered onto the patient bed with no protests.

“Sir Elyan, go to the kitchen and fetch some food for the prince,” Uther said.

“Nothing too solid,” Gaius put in sharply.

“Broth, then,” Uther snapped. “Go!” Then, quieter, to Gaius: “He’s so light.”

Something about his father’s tone was heart-breaking and Arthur looked away from the vulnerability on his face. He knew he had lost weight in captivity; the food had been scarce and the marches had been gruelling. It was still a shock to look down when Gaius had removed his shirt and see how thin he had become.

“It’s alright, sire,” Gaius said, soothing. “We’ll have you fighting fit in no time. Lie back for me…”

Once Arthur had lain down, Gaius set about examining him for obvious injuries and feeding him water. Uther hovered close by, and though he kept his face as blank as possible, Arthur could see every slight flinch as another bruise or cut was revealed.

Gaius wouldn’t let Arthur speak until he had determined he had no head wounds or serious gashes anywhere. After his check was done, he touched the collar around Arthur’s neck.

“Is this hurting you, sire?” he said urgently. “Controlling you in any way, tracking you?”

“No,” Arthur said. “It- it was but we’re beyond the range of the magic.”

“Take it off him,” Uther said brusquely, and Arthur knew his impatience was to cover up his distress at seeing his son collared thus.

“There isn’t a clasp,” Gaius said, feeling around it. “I think it will require magical means.”

Uther looked perturbed.

“It shouldn’t be a problem,” Gaius said reassuringly. “Arthur is right that we’re beyond the range of its magic, I can’t sense anything from it. It has no power now and I do not think Morgause will have trouble removing it.”

Arthur felt no small amount of relief himself to hear that; he wanted the damn thing off. He let Gaius fuss a little longer but when he started trying to force a potion down Arthur’s throat, Arthur sat up, ignoring the wave of pain that swept through him.

“Father, please, I have to…”

Uther nodded at Gaius, who looked most disgruntled but stood back a little.

“Be brief, son, there will be time for a full report later when you are well.”

“There won’t because- because-”

All the words were fighting to come out of Arthur at once; he forced himself to calm down before he hyperventilated.

“They’re coming. Here, they’re coming here to attack Camelot. And they have a dragon and sorcerers and they know our defences and-”

“Slow down,” Uther said, eyes flashing. “Who’s coming?”

“Cenred,” Arthur gasped out. “The Prince of Essetir, the one they executed, only he lived, and he- he’s been hidden in the woods and he has an army-”

“Sire, please, calm yourself,” Gaius said worriedly.

“He wants to be King of Albion!” Arthur said. “And he wants to take Camelot for himself and they’re just beyond the Darkling Woods, they’re so close, Father-”

He ran out of breath and Gaius took the opportunity to force another gulp of water on him. The colour had drained a little from Uther’s face but his mouth was set in a firm line.

“It is as we suspected,” he said grimly. “We heard of an army marching, and the village ruined by a dragon. We knew it must be the same beast that had taken you.”

His eyes were far away for a second and then he looked directly at Arthur.

“We have been preparing for this, Arthur. Do not fear. We knew not who the enemy was but our army is ready to take them on.”

Arthur could not be reassured.

“They have sorcerers, powerful ones,” he said desperately. “And a- a dragon, and they…”

Suddenly he remembered and felt a hot flash of shame.

“And I told them about our defences. And our army. And the- the secret trapdoor behind the well, you must send someone to cover it…”

He lowered his eyes, no longer able to look at his father.

“I told them everything,” he mumbled. “They went inside my head and I… I wasn’t strong enough to resist. I’m sorry, Father.”

A hand grasped his own.

“Never say such things,” Uther said, and his voice was thick. “The fact that you made it back to us shows how strong you are.”

He squeezed Arthur’s hand, and somehow, Arthur found it in himself to squeeze back. The guilt still lingered but he could see that his father did not blame him and it eased his shame a little.

“Your majesty, with your leave, I will go and see to the blocking of the trapdoor,” Elena put in.

Uther straightened up, with a slight cough.

“Yes, and then call a meeting of the knights and council. I will be along to attend when I have finished here.”

Elena nodded and stepped up to Arthur’s side.

“Be well, sire,” she said and Arthur tried to raise a sort of smile.

When she was gone, Gaius fed Arthur a little more water.

“I must see to your injuries now,” he said in a tone that brooked no arguments.

“But I have more to tell,” Arthur said, struggling at the hand trying to push him to lie flat.

“Tell me while Gaius works,” Uther said, and Arthur knew that was as much of a compromise as he was going to get.

He told Uther about the castle in the woods as Gaius stripped him down to inspect his body. He told Uther about the sorcerers and their powers as Gaius cleaned and bandaged his cuts and scrapes. He told Uther about the march on Camelot and his escape as Gaius listened to his chest and lungs. He talked of everything that had happened from the time of his capture until the present, and the only part he omitted was a skinny serving boy who’d saved Arthur’s life and then broken his heart.

Uther patted his shoulder when his voice finally gave out, too exhausted to continue.

“You have been through much and it sounds like you have borne it well,” he said intently and Arthur heard the words which went unspoken, the love and pride in his father’s voice.

“I will be ready to fight with you,” he said hoarsely and Uther nodded.

“I do not doubt it. But you will recover first. You won’t leave these chambers until Gaius is satisfied, understood?”

Arthur nodded, lying back wearily. He wanted to join his knights immediately but he was no help to them in this condition. However, he would be out there tomorrow, come hell or high water.

“I will meet with the council and pass on what you have told me.”

Uther turned to leave and Arthur lifted a hand.

“Morgana?” he croaked out and his father’s face softened.

“She and Morgause are on patrol in the east, I will have Kara send them a message to return.”

He smiled.

“Your sister will be furious not to have been here.”

Arthur gave a weak smile in return, even as tears pricked at his eyes. He wanted to see Morgana. He wanted to tell her the truth about what had happened with Merlin. She would know what to do, somehow. She had to.

Elyan returned with the broth shortly after Uther had left. He seemed to understand that Arthur didn’t want company, and excused himself to round up the other knights. Gaius helped Arthur to sit up again and placed the soup on his lap.

“It’s not as bad as I feared. Lots of cuts and bruises but nothing that won’t heal. You’re malnourished but we just need to get some sustenance in you. My only concern is your chest infection, we’ll have to try and clear it as best we can or it could turn nasty.”

Arthur picked up the soup spoon and put it down again; his hand was shaking too badly to hold it.

“There now,” Gaius said kindly. “Take it easy. It might take your body a while to realise that you’re safe again.”

He held up the spoon. Arthur opened his mouth, trying his best not to remember the last time he had been fed like this.

He wanted to protest but he was too weak and exhausted. He let Gaius feed him half the bowl before he started to feel ill and then he obediently swallowed down a tincture of some kind. It was quick to make him feel hazy and he made no objections as Gaius laid him back down and tucked a blanket around him.

“Sleep, Arthur. You’ve done well.”

“I have to tell… Father…” but he trailed off, for he wasn’t sure what he had to tell.

“It can wait,” Gaius said softly. “Sleep.”

So Arthur did.

 

 

 

 

When he woke up his vision was blurry and all he could see was a figure by his bed, slim and dark haired.

“Merlin?” he mumbled and the figure startled.

“Sire?”

The world came into focus and it was only Daegal staring back at him.

“Hello Daegal,” he said tiredly, hoping he didn’t sound as disappointed as he felt.

“Gaius said to give you this,” Daegal said, holding out a small cup of what looked like herb tea.

Arthur sat up and drank it, grimacing at the taste. His neck felt a little strange and he put his hand up to feel the collar, only to realise there was nothing there.

“Morgause came by in the early hours,” Daegal said, seeing Arthur’s movement. “It took a few tries but she managed to remove it.”

“Where is it now?” Arthur said, glancing around.

“She took it outside to ‘blast it back to hell and beyond’,” Daegal said, blushing slightly. “Her words not mine.”

“I believe that’s her way of saying she missed me,” Arthur said and Daegal giggled. Morgause’s emotional constipation was well known around the castle. Arthur often thought that she and his father had more in common than they’d care to admit.

He was finishing the last of the vile herb tea when Gaius bustled in.

“How are you feeling, m’boy?”

“Better,” Arthur said truthfully.

“And your chest?”

“Fine,” Arthur said, a little less truthfully. Gaius eyed him beadily.

“You were coughing in your sleep last night and your breathing still sounds laboured.”

“Gaius, I have to-”

“I know, I know, you have to go and meet your knights. I’d counsel you against it but I’m sure I’d be roundly ignored, hence why Daegal is here.”

He pushed Daegal forward a little, and the boy gave a nervous smile.

“I’m to try a spell on your chest, to clear your lungs.”

He didn’t seem to be brimming with confidence but Arthur would have tried anything to get out of bed sooner.

“Gladly.”

“Breakfast first,” Gaius said bossily, handing a bowl to Arthur.

“But Cenred-”

“Is not arriving today. Our scouts indicate his army has not moved into attack formation. So eat.”

This time he could feed himself, which came as a great relief. The sleep had done him good and Gaius’ potions had reduced the sharper pains in his body to dull aches. He was far from at full capacity though, and he hoped with all his heart that Gaius was right about Cenred not attacking today.

Daegal was a little hesitant when it came to performing the spell and it took him several tries. Arthur was rather glad to have finished his breakfast when he heard Gaius advising Daegal to “visualise the mucus disintegrating before your eyes”.

Whatever Daegal did worked in the end; Arthur found himself taking an easy breath for the first time in days. He fidgeted impatiently while Gaius checked him over again.

“I’m fine,” he said and Gaius sighed.

“You are far from fine, sire. I would recommend one more day in bed, at least. Your body has been under a huge amount of strain-”

“Camelot needs me,” Arthur said, getting to his feet. He stumbled slightly as he dressed himself and Gaius pursed his lips.

“Does it need you with a broken leg from falling over?” he muttered but he helped Arthur put on a jacket.

“Daegal will escort you to the Great Hall. You will _lean_ on him, do you understand me?”

“Yes, yes,” Arthur said readily.

Daegal was not at an optimal height for leaning on and he seemed so worried about displeasing his prince that Arthur wasn’t sure in the end which was being supported by the other. But he made it to the Great Hall, although his head was swimming when he arrived. He brushed it off and made his way inside.

The room looked up as he entered. There was a kind of muffled gasp and then several people seemed to rise to their feet at once, moving towards him.

One person beat the rest. He was almost knocked off his feet by the force of the hug Morgana wrapped him in. He squeezed her as much as he was able in return, inhaling the familiar flowery scent of her soap.

When she finally stepped back, it was to give him a gentle punch on the arm.

“Never do that to me again,” she said fervently.

“You make it sound like I got kidnapped by a dragon primarily to inconvenience you,” Arthur retorted and Morgana shrugged.

“I didn’t want to be the one to say it but…”

They both sniggered.

“Children,” Uther said wearily and gods, Arthur had missed that exasperated tone. “If you wish to bicker, you may go and live in Tír-Mòr with the rest of the street urchins.”

Arthur couldn’t stop a grin breaking out across his face to hear the familiar threat.

Uther’s lips twitched but he continued.

“Morgana, you were in the middle of your report, and Arthur, you should be in bed, as you well know.”

“Gaius let me go,” Arthur argued but his point was somewhat undermined by the fact he was leaning on Morgana to stay upright. The short burst of energy Daegal’s spell had given him had faded fast, and suddenly he was feeling unsteady on his feet.

“Besides, I need to hear the council’s decisions,” he added weakly and Uther let out a sigh.

“Can Morgause finish your report?” he said to Morgana and she nodded eagerly. “Very well. Morgana will escort you back to bed and she will tell you all you need to know.”

“But-”

“Or Morgause can put a sleeping spell on you and levitate you out of here,” Uther said severely and Arthur gulped, sensing his father was entirely serious.

“I’ll go with Morgana,” he said meekly.

“Excellent choice,” Uther said with the thinnest of smiles. His face softened a little. “I will come by at some point to discuss our plans with you. We will need your expertise.”

“Thank you, sire,” Arthur said, meaning it. He couldn’t bear the thought of being left out of all of this.

He let his eyes sweep over the room once, trying to give a reassuring smile to his knights and nobles. Morgause gave him a simple nod but he could read the deeper sentiment behind it, even though she would never show it.

He turned to leave, realising suddenly that he might have to lean rather heavily on Morgana now that Daegal had scarpered (he liked to spend as little time in the king’s presence as physically possible). Then, someone pulled his arm over their shoulder.

“Sir Gwaine, you were not given leave to adjourn,” Uther said, in a tone that could only be described as long suffering.

“May I have leave to adjourn, your majesty?” Gwaine replied, voice only just deferential enough to qualify as respectful. “Only, the Lady Morgana might not be able to carry the prince if he collapses.”

“You will return directly after,” Uther said, just loud enough to drown out Morgana’s indignant huff.

Gwaine didn’t speak again until they had reached the corridor, whereupon he let out a loud and undignified whoop.

“I knew you’d make it back!”

“Yes, and my hearing was intact until now,” Arthur said sarcastically but Gwaine just grinned at him.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes, Princess. Even if you are looking a little on the scrawny side.”

“I could still beat you in a wrestle,” Arthur said and Morgana tsked loudly.

“I’m not sure you could beat Daegal in a wrestle right now, brother dear.”

“Fine, take his side,” Arthur said sulkily.

“No sides, Princess, just a bunch of relieved knights happy to have you back in charge.”

“I hope you’ve been training without me,” Arthur said and Gwaine sighed dramatically.

“Yes, Elyan’s become quite the little tyrant in your absence. You might have to do something about that, mate. I think the power’s gone to his head.”

“If he can keep you in line, he’s found himself a job for life,” Arthur said and Gwaine poked him in the side.

“Ow!”

“Try not to injure the invalid further,” Morgana remarked. “We might need him at some point.”

Arthur was almost surprised to find they’d reached the door of his own chambers.

“I thought you’d take me to Gaius’?”

“I know you better than that,” Morgana said. “If you’re going to be laid up anywhere, you want it to be your own bed.”

She was right. Arthur had missed his room, and his four poster bed would feel like heaven after the places he’d slept in captivity.

“I think even a feeble little woman like me can take it from here, Gwaine,” Morgana said witheringly and Gwaine gave her a salute.

“Right you are, m’lady. Take care of yourself, Princess.”

Before Arthur could object, Gwaine had smacked a noisy kiss on his cheek.

“Good to have you back!”

He darted off down the corridor before Arthur could retaliate.

“Nice to know that some things haven’t changed around here,” Arthur said flippantly, but in truth it was. The last few weeks had been so fraught with fear and tension, and the hardest part was yet to come. It had been nice to remember that whatever else was going on in Camelot, Gwaine remained his usual ridiculous self.

The conversation had been a pleasant diversion, but Arthur knew it was time to get back to business. Morgana seemed to sense this and didn’t delay. She filled him in briefly on the plans they’d made while he was away, from the point when all they knew was that a dragon was involved, to the point where word came of an army marching from Essetir, seemingly on a course for the city.

“We weren’t sure who they might be. Uther thought a usurped king, Morgause thought a warlord, and I suspected a pretender to the throne.”

“I suppose in a way Cenred is all of those things,” Arthur said wearily, sitting back against his pillows.

“We didn’t have much to go on. And I could not-”

Here Morgana faltered, her voice trembling a little.

“I could not See anything of you. No matter how hard I tried.”

“It was the collar,” Arthur said quickly. “It blocked the visions of Seers, Cenred told me. It wasn’t your fault.”

Morgana made a small sound of relief.

“I felt so guilty,” she admitted. “I had not Seen anything before you were taken and I could not See anything after. What use was I?

“You can’t force a vision-” Arthur began.

“-or control what happens in one,” she finished. “I know. Still, though. I would have given anything to have seen this coming.”

Arthur understood. He would have felt the same way had he been the one left behind.

“In any case, our information was limited,” Morgana said, steering back to the topic at hand. “We decided to focus our efforts on researching ways to defeat the dragon-”

Arthur held up his hand.

“Tell me of that in a moment,” he said quickly. “I want to hear our battle plan first.”

He wasn’t ready to speak of the dragon yet, much less of how to kill it.

Morgana nodded.

“It will be tomorrow,” she said.

Arthur steeled himself. He had known they hadn’t long.

“The lower town and surrounding areas have already been evacuated. We are too late to send envoys to our allies but Morgause made overtures to her friends in Mercia and Nemeth when you were first taken, and Elena reached out to Gawant. Several sorcerers have come to Camelot to aid us in the last few days.”

Arthur nodded. Any additional magic users would be of great help in the fight.

“Our army is battle ready but we think the citadel’s defences are our best asset. We’re not riding out to meet them. We’re letting them come to us.”

She explained the discussion that had led to this decision, the plans that the council had made. Arthur was mostly in agreement. They would find a way in eventually, with their sorcerers and dragon, but Camelot’s army would be in a good position to pick as many off as possible before that point. The idea was to situate the sorcerers on the battlements, firing spells from above, and have the knights lying in wait on the ground below. The sorcerers would be flanked by archers and both would do their best against the dragon when it came.

“Of course, that is the weakness of any plan we make,” Morgana said grimly. “We’re presenting an easier target to the dragon by bunching up closely in the citadel, but we wouldn’t be much better protected out in the open.”

“What is the plan for the dragon?” Arthur asked, throat dry.

“Morgause believes our best chance is to overwhelm it. We’ll have all sorcerers casting at once, all archers targeting its belly and jaw. If we can damage its eyes or its wings it will be much more vulnerable. The weaker it gets, the easier it will be to finish it off.”

Arthur had a sudden image, as clear as day, of a dragon falling through the sky, its wings charred and torn and its eyes blank and unseeing. The noise it would make when it hit the ground.

Would it turn human again when it was dead? Would Arthur look down to see Merlin curled up in the courtyard, body twisted and wrecked, eyes bleeding from the archer’s arrows?

“Arthur? Arthur, what’s wrong?”

Morgana sounded alarmed and it took Arthur a long moment to realise that his eyes were full of tears.

“Arthur, what is it?”

“I have to… have to tell you something,” he said unsteadily.

Morgana moved her chair a little closer to the bed and reached out to take his hand.

“Of course,” she said.

Arthur took a shaky breath.

“When I was in captivity… I met a servant. He was called Merlin and he- he was kind to me. Brought me food, tried to help me when I was beaten.”

He saw Morgana wince almost imperceptibly but she didn’t say anything.

“He hated Cenred too; he told me he’d been kidnapped because he had magic. Cenred had branded him – the brand let him control all the spells Merlin could cast.”

Morgana sucked in a quiet breath, pity warring with disgust on her face.

“On the march he stuck up for me, even when he was punished for it. I became ill from the cold and he tended to me. Maybe even saved my life. Then, when the time came he helped me sneak out of the camp, gave me a knife and told me the way home. And then he- he-”

Arthur broke off, overcome, and Morgana squeezed his hand.

“Was he killed?” she said gently.

“No.”

“Is it- are you trying to find a way to rescue him?”

“No, Morgana, it’s-”

He choked back a sob.

“Arthur…”

“It’s _him_ , Morgana. He’s… he’s the dragon.”

For a moment Morgana just stared at him.

“I don’t understand,” she said at last.

“He’s the dragon. He-he _transformed_ , I saw him. He must be able to switch between two forms.”

“It’s not possible,” Morgana said, shaking her head.

“I saw it,” Arthur pleaded. “He was a man and then he was- his limbs started to grow and his eyes changed colour and…”

He trailed off. He had been trying his hardest not to think of that moment; the blinding horror and confusion that had overwhelmed him as the impossible had happened in front of his very eyes.

“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” Morgana said, and her eyes were very wide. He knew that she did not doubt the truth of his words, only that she was trying to reconcile herself to the reality of what he said. “Did he… was the friendship he offered a trap?”

“I don’t think so,” Arthur said, taking himself by surprise. It was a question that had been nagging at the back of his mind since he’d escaped, even if he’d refused to face it head on until now. But, despite the keen, continuing sense of betrayal Arthur felt, the idea that it was a trap made no sense. Merlin hadn't gained any useful information from Arthur by pretending to be his friend. He hadn’t used his leverage to plant any false ideas in Arthur’s head, as far as Arthur was aware. And, most importantly of all… _he hadn’t hurt him_. Arthur was a fast runner but he had nothing against a dragon. He knew that Merlin could have ripped the trees from the ground; burned the forest around Arthur until he was surrounded with no way out. Arthur had gotten away, and that could only mean that Merlin had resisted coming after him somehow.

What had he said? _I can’t hold it back._ Was it possible that Merlin had been trying to resist the change? Trying his best not to turn into the beast that could tear Arthur apart?

“He told me to run,” he said, blinking away tears.

“And he didn’t chase you?”

Arthur shook his head and Morgana considered.

“You said Cenred controlled his magic through a brand,” she said slowly. “Is it possible that Cenred controlled the dragon side of him in the same way?”

“Maybe,” Arthur said, thinking back to the night of his escape. Cenred had been nearby, it was possible he had gotten wind of their plan and decided that the dragon was the best way to make sure Arthur got no further.

“Had you two ever spoken of the dragon before?”

“Yes, but he let me believe there was a dragonlord controlling it.”

“Is that the word he used? Controlling?”

“He said the dragon only did what it was ordered to do,” Arthur said, remembering.

“And he never even hinted that-”

“No,” Arthur said, and he couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his voice. All that time they had spent together and Merlin had been withholding the biggest secret of all.

Morgana sat back.

“You were there, I was not,” she said simply. “I can’t tell you what the truth is. But from the story you’ve told me, it sounds like the help he offered was genuine. He had good reason to hate Cenred, as I would hate any person who used my magic thus. If Cenred controls his dragon half as well as his magic, then it doesn’t sound like he has a choice.”

“That’s a generous take,” Arthur said, suddenly angry. “This is a dragon that slaughtered a whole village of people, lest we forget.”

Morgana sat up a little then.

“But he didn’t,” she said abruptly. “Word came through that the only person to perish was an elderly man who collapsed from the shock. We thought it strange at the time, that so many escaped with their lives, but now it all makes sense.”

“It does?”

“Don’t you see, Arthur? It’s not Merlin’s choice to do any of this. He’s holding back in the only way he knows how.”

Arthur processed this for a minute. He had heard so many screams from the village, the fire had raged so long. But none had died…

He wanted to believe that Merlin was good, he wanted to believe it more than anything in the world. But there was one more fact to take into account.

“And what about Leon?” he said quietly.

Morgana’s face fell.

“Yes,” she said, and squeezed his hand. “That was a hard blow.”

Arthur nodded, chest tight.

“But it could have been worse. Gaius says he will be walking soon and there’s no reason to believe-”

“Wait,” Arthur interrupted, heart pounding. “Leon’s alive?”

Morgana’s mouth fell open in shock.

“Of course, Arthur,” she cried and her eyes filled with tears. “Have you been thinking all this time…”

“I saw him fall,” Arthur said, still not able to believe. “He- he lay so still.”

“He was badly injured,” Morgana said. “It’s possible he will not be able to ride again, and as for being a knight… But he is alive and well, Arthur, I promise you. It was only his inability to walk that stopped him from heading out to rescue you himself.”

“Morgana, I thought…”

Arthur began to cry, tears falling down quicker than he could scrub them away. He had mourned for his friend, accepted a world without him in it, sworn vengeance for his death and now Leon was alive. It was too much to take in and Arthur could not help but sob.

Morgana didn’t hesitate, climbing into the bed beside Arthur and taking him in her arms. She rubbed his back as he sobbed into her shoulder and muttered soft reassurances in his ear.

“What do we do now?” Arthur said, when he was finally able to speak again.

Morgana seemed to know it was Merlin he referred to.

“We need to tell Uther,” she said quietly. “And Morgause. This changes things.”

“It won’t for them,” Arthur said, with a horrible certainty. “They’ll still want him dead.”

“He’s being forced-”

“Yes, forced to kill us. You know they won’t listen. They won’t put the safety of Camelot above his life.”

Morgana was silent awhile.

“Then we’ll tell Gaius. He might know something, a ritual, a way to help. At the very least, he might be able to tell us if he’s ever heard of a dragon man before.”

Arthur nodded and Morgana slipped outside to send a guard. She sat back on the chair when she returned, stroking Arthur’s hand.

“You really care about him,” she said and it was a statement, not a question.

“He saved my life,” Arthur said wearily. “He was hurt on my behalf. He… he wants to be good and Cenred’s tried to stamp that out of him.”

So many things about Merlin made sense now. How uncomfortable any talk of the dragon seemed to make him, a discomfort that Arthur now recognised as shame. How broken he had looked on the night of the village attack.

Arthur had sworn to Merlin that he would kill the dragon. He had called it a beast, a monster, disgust and loathing dripping from his voice.

Of the two of them, Arthur wondered which had broken the others’ heart more.

Arthur did not mince his words when Gaius arrived; time was too precious. The physician turned pale and grim-faced, but the only real shock on his face was when Arthur mentioned his name.

“You’re sure it was Merlin?”

Arthur nodded.

“Did he ever say where he was kidnapped from?”

“Some village,” Arthur said, struggling to recall. “Eeldom or Eyaldom.”

“Ealdor?” Gaius said sharply.

“Yes!” Arthur said, and then frowned. “Do you know him?”

“No,” Gaius said quickly. “But, I knew his mother. His father too. It fits too well for him to be anyone else.”

He gripped Arthur’s shoulder.

“Is he alright, Arthur? Tell me he’s alright.”

“Gaius, what do you know?” Morgana said.

Gaius looked troubled.

“It’s a long story.”

“Then make it short,” Arthur said. He was still trying to process the fact that Gaius knew who Merlin was, that perhaps he could shed some light on this whole thing.

“First tell me he is still alive.”

“As far as I know,” Arthur said, stomach churning as it occurred to him that Cenred could be doing anything to Merlin right now.

Gaius didn’t look satisfied but he nodded.

“I will try to be brief. I met a young woman named Hunith many years ago, when I was travelling in Essetir. She had the makings of a gifted healer and I stayed with her several months, teaching her all I knew. I returned to Camelot after but we kept in touch by letter.”

Gaius passed a hand over his face.

“When the Purge began, I helped many sorcerers leave Camelot, as you know. One was a man named Balinor and he was no ordinary magic user. He was a dragonlord – you remember I taught you of them. But by that point the dragons had all been hunted to the point of extinction and there were none left to command. He was searching the five kingdoms for eggs when the Purge began and he had to flee. I sent him to stay with Hunith, who had settled in Ealdor by then. I thought he would be safest there.”

Gaius’ eyes were half-closed, remembering.

“They fell in love, or so her letters told me. But tragically it was barely a year later that she wrote to me to say that he had died.”

Morgana drew in a sharp breath.

“Uther didn’t-”

“No,” Gaius said sadly. “A simple winter chill. Hunith was seven months pregnant at the time. I offered her a place to live in Camelot but she did not wish to leave her home, or the grave where she had buried Balinor.”

He looked lost in thought for a moment and Morgana touched him gently on the arm, a silent plea to continue.

“Yes, well. In any case. Dragonlords pass their gifts on through the male line, as you know. But Merlin was not yet born when Balinor died. I did not know whether the gift would pass on, and at that point it seemed not to matter. There were no dragons left.”

Gaius suddenly looked very old and very sad.

“I meant to visit anyway, to meet the boy and see if he had inherited his father’s powers. But time kept slipping by and I never made it out there. Then one day Hunith wrote to me to say that Merlin had been kidnapped and she needed help.”

There was shame in Gaius’ eyes now.

“I did what I could. The Purge was still on but I travelled to Essetir and we tracked down and paid a sorceress to scry for Merlin. When she couldn’t find him, we tried another. And another. But none could even find a trace of him. One led us all the way to the middle of the Forest of Geancy, but there was nothing there, no place he could have been hidden. That sorcerer told us that the trail completely cut off there, and that it was most likely this was where Merlin had been killed.”

Morgana took a little intake of breath.

“I returned to Camelot and Hunith to Ealdor. I wanted to bring her back with me but she would not come. She was adamant that she would wait in Ealdor until Merlin found his way home again.”

Gaius turned heavy eyes on Arthur.

“I thought him dead,” he confessed. “I did not carry on looking. Perhaps if I had carried on…”

“You wouldn’t have found him,” Arthur said, because this much he knew. “Cenred’s castle was charmed against scrying. He never let Merlin beyond its limits. The sorcerer was right that the trail cut off there-”

Arthur had to stop because he was overcome by grief, at the thought of Merlin’s mother standing in a clearing in a forest, a sorcerer telling her this was where her son had met his end.

“Is Hunith still alive?” he asked, a little desperate. If she had died, if Merlin would never have the chance to be reunited with her…

“Yes. She wrote to me not two months ago,” Gaius said.

Arthur breathed a sigh of relief.

“Alright. Gaius, have you ever heard of a human being able to become a dragon before?”

Gaius looked thoughtful.

“Only once. There is a reference to it in one of my more arcane volumes, but I believed it more myth than truth until now. The story goes that there was a great sickening among the dragons of old, and thus a ritual was enacted to birth a girl child with dragon blood in her veins, a symbol of new hope for the species. The engraving in the book shows an image of her transforming.”

“So, Merlin? Someone performed a ritual?” Morgana asked.

“I believe the ritual to be symbolic in this case, a sacrifice to the natural forces of the earth. Certainly I have never come across any spell that might do this.”

He paused, thinking, and Arthur recognised the look in his eye.

“You have a theory.”

“Just a theory,” Gaius warned. “I will need to consult more sources to be sure. But it does occur to me that the Old Religion requires a certain balance, and would not wish to see an ancient magical species purged from the earth. When Merlin was conceived, the dragons were all but gone. What use would another dragonlord be with no-one to command? It is not beyond the realms of possibility that destiny took a hand in Merlin’s conception.”

Arthur digested this. It was as good a conclusion as any he could come to. It wasn't like he’d had a chance to ask Merlin himself.

“Which brings us back to the original problem,” Morgana said, cutting into his thoughts. “How do we rescue Merlin?”

Gaius looked pained.

“I do not know. If you are right that his transformation is being controlled by Cenred, we would need to know what spell he is using and how to break it, if breaking it is even possible. To get close enough to find out could be very dangerous indeed.”

“But he has a certain amount of autonomy,” Morgana argued. “Not killing the villagers or Arthur proves that. It sounds like the control Cenred has over Merlin’s spells is stronger than the control he has over his dragon self.”

“You may be right,” Gaius said pensively. “I will need to consult my books…”

“I’m coming,” Morgana said, rising from her chair. “Two heads are better than one. And five heads are better than two. I’ll round up Kara and Sefa and Daegal, they can help.”

“I can help too,” Arthur said and they both turned to him.

“You can help by regaining your strength,” Morgana said softly. “We’ll need you at your best for the battle.”

“She’s right, sire. Get some sleep.”

Arthur wanted to object, but the truth was he was no good at reading or research. It was better for him to focus on getting better so he would be ready to fight.

“Let me know the second you find anything,” he said and Morgana nodded.

“I’m telling Morgause and Father about Merlin too,” she said, holding up a hand to forestall Arthur’s protest. “Don’t argue. I agree they are unlikely to change their attack plan but they may allow us a little time in the battle at least.”

Arthur conceded the point. Morgause and Uther already wanted the dragon dead; it wasn’t as if they had anything to lose by telling them.

His mind was racing as he lay back on his pillows, thinking of all he had learned. Leon was alive. Merlin had never had a choice, even in dragon form. There might be a way to set him free.

Arthur wanted that, so badly. Now that the shock of betrayal had worn off, the horror of the truth, Arthur was no longer angry. He wished Merlin had told him, but he understood why Merlin had not. He just wanted to see him again now. He wanted to break Cenred’s hold on him and he wanted to bring Merlin to live in Camelot, to reunite him with his mother, and to make him happy for the rest of his days.

He wanted Merlin not to die tomorrow.

He could not sleep. He tried to plan instead and his mind was exhausted by the time the sun had gone down. He was no closer to an answer about how to save Merlin and when Gwen arrived with a dinner tray and a bone crushing hug, Arthur was glad of the distraction.

Perhaps sensing he did not wish to speak of the upcoming battle, Gwen talked only of castle gossip, and which maid was seeing which guard, and who had gotten into a brawl in The Rising Sun (the answer to the latter was Gwaine, to Arthur’s profound lack of surprise). Elyan and Elena came by again briefly, and then Kara and Sefa dropped in with some flowers that Sefa had grown (“Peonies, for healing,” she’d said shyly), and finally Morgause paid a visit. She clearly hadn’t spoken to Morgana yet for she talked exclusively of tactics and formations they might use in the upcoming battle and finally rapped out “It is good to see you well” as she left the room, her face a little twisted as if even that small display of emotion was a source of great embarrassment.

Arthur was left with a strange feeling, as though he had been fortified with a great groundswell of love from those who had missed him. It made his heart swell in gratitude; for he was rich in friends indeed. Whatever happened tomorrow, he could think of no group he would rather fight beside.

It wasn’t until he was drifting off to sleep that he thought of someone who had no friends to call his own, or physicians to tend him when hurt, or loved ones to soothe his fears. Someone entirely alone, someone who had been that way for years.

In the stillness of the night, Arthur ached to put his arms around Merlin, to stroke his hair and tell him everything would be alright. Even if Arthur wasn’t sure that was true at all.

 

 

 

 

The day of the battle dawned bright and cold. The snow had mostly melted from the ground but remnants of frost still crunched underfoot and the knights were muttering ominously about slippery conditions. Arthur didn’t reprimand them. He knew their grumbles covered up their mounting nerves about the fight ahead.

He took all the healing draughts Gaius had sent up to his chambers before he left for the Great Hall. The war council had one last meeting of the council in the morning. As promised, Uther had visited him earlier to go over their plans. There was not much left to discuss. They were in agreement that this was the best way to proceed, even if victory was nowhere near assured.

Morgause motioned for Arthur to stay behind after the council disassembled.

“Morgana told us about the dragon,” she said.

Arthur looked to his father, who had steepled his hands under his chin.

“It’s not his fault,” was all he could say and Uther sighed.

“I know, Arthur, and I think you also know what my answer must be. I recognise the sacrifice he has made for your safety, but I cannot put his wellbeing above that of Camelot’s.”

Arthur’s fists clenched tightly. He had expected this decision and yet the unfairness of it all hit him like a blow.

Morgause stepped forward.

“However. Morgana has impressed upon us that the boy may have some autonomy in dragon form. If he makes no move to harm us, we will make no move to harm him.”

Arthur’s heart leapt a little. It was a chance, at least. If Merlin could just resist Cenred’s commands…

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Morgause said abruptly and Arthur would have been angry, if not for the confliction he could see in her eyes. Arthur realised that to her, the story of a sorcerer’s magic being controlled was probably more painful that he could appreciate.

It might mean that she would delay giving the kill order, and for that Arthur was grateful. He took his leave and headed straight to Gaius’ chambers, hoping against hope that their research might have produced something useful.

He only had to look at Gaius’ weary face when he entered to see that this was not the case.

“The situation is unprecedented,” Gaius said. “I managed to locate the story of the girl dragon, but the book had no more information to offer about her life or death. It’s still unclear whether the entire story is intended metaphorically.”

“We looked through all the dragon tomes again,” Daegal said tiredly from where he was sat on the floor, surrounded by loose sheaves of paper. “There was no mention of hybrids of any kind between dragons and another living thing.”

“Sefa did find reference to a dragonlord who took to abusing his power,” Gaius said. “When he commanded his dragon to kill a High Priestess, the dragon managed to resist long enough for the priestess to escape.”

“Did it say how the dragon resisted?”

“No, and the story is just a fragment. But if true, it indicates that it may be possible for Merlin to exercise his own judgment when in dragon form. The brand may be powerful but it cannot be as strong as the innate bond between dragonlord and dragon. If Merlin was able to resist once-”

“By not killing the villagers?”

“Exactly. Merlin obeyed the generality of the order there but chose not to hurt anyone – it’s highly unlikely that Cenred intended those villagers to walk free. It may be the same in battle today. Cenred can force Merlin to transform but his influence might be limited after that.”

“We have to hope so,” Arthur said heavily. He did not say what was on his mind, because he knew Gaius would have already considered the possibility. If Merlin did manage to defy Cenred today, it was unlikely the king would let him live long after.

It was as though there was no way to win. Either Camelot’s army would kill Merlin for obeying Cenred’s orders, or Cenred would kill him for not doing so.

Gaius reached out to squeeze Arthur’s arm.

“It is not the time to despair, sire,” he said quietly. “If the Old Religion played a hand in Merlin’s birth, it may have a hand to play in his survival too.”

Arthur nodded, drawing himself up to his full height. Giving into despondency would help no one right now, least of all Merlin. He needed to be strong.

“Thank you,” he said sincerely, looking to Daegal as well. “For trying.”

“Anything for you, sire,” Daegal surprised him by saying and Arthur coughed, both awkward and flattered.

“Well. I hope you both got at least a little sleep.”

“I sent the young ones to bed at midnight,” Gaius said. “Kara was practically vibrating after all that time spent sitting around. I pity the enemy that gets in her way today.”

Arthur smiled.

“Are you setting up in the main hall?”

“Yes. Daegal will stay with me to tend the wounded. We have amassed as many supplies as we could.”

“You don’t fancy joining me on the frontlines, Daegal?” Arthur teased and the young man shuddered.

“I think Kara would probably push me off the battlements for not casting fast enough.”

Arthur smiled and clapped him on the shoulder, before taking Gaius by the hand.

“Good luck today, Gaius. If we don’t meet again…”

“None of that now, sire. All I ask is that you don’t get yourself too badly injured again, you make a terrible patient.”

“I’ll try,” Arthur said and nodded to both before slipping from the room.

The castle bustled with activity as he walked towards the armoury. Guards hurried by, servants and squires rushed past with pieces of armour and powders for spells clasped in their hands. The mood was frantic on the surface, and sombre beneath. All had heard that the approaching army was flanked by a dragon. All understood that the odds were not favourable.

He found Gwen in the armoury, demonstrating how to don armour to a small group of young soldiers.

“Now try with each other and I’ll inspect when you’re done,” she said, already turning to lift more supplies from the wall.

“Guinevere,” Arthur said by way of greeting and she swivelled to smile at him.

“Arthur! We’re a little short on squires so I’m helping out.”

“You look tired,” he said, concerned. “Were you up all night?”

“I’ve been working the forge a lot the last couple of weeks,” she said, bringing up her hand to wipe her brow. “Breastplates and helmets mostly, for new army recruits. And a sword.”

“A sword for whom?”

“For myself, of course. My old one was out of balance.”

Gwen gave him a beatific smile, as if entirely anticipating the objections he was about to make.

“Does Morgana know you’re intending to fight today?” he asked pointedly.

“No, she expects me to sit in the castle like some dithering old Lord, waiting to be captured. And if she asks, you can tell her that’s where I’ll be.”

“Guinevere…”

“Arthur…” Gwen repeated in the exact same tone.

Arthur regarded her for a moment.

“If anything happens to you, her heart will break,” he said quietly.

“And so shall mine, if anything happens to her,” Gwen replied fiercely. “So don’t tell me to sit and wait in safety when I could be out there fighting to protect us.”

This was a battle already fought and won, and Arthur knew that Gwen was right. He would never have been able to stay behind if the person he loved was in danger.

“Be safe,” he said instead and her face softened.

“You too,” she said, and enfolded him in a hug.

“Will you dress me?” he asked. His squire was elsewhere, and, at this moment in time, Arthur wanted nothing more than Gwen to do it.

Her hands shook a little as she fixed his left vambrace.

“I hope it doesn’t end today,” she said, quiet enough for only him to hear.

“So do I,” Arthur said. Camelot’s peace was hard won; after years of oppression and fear. To have it all stripped away now, taken over by a tyrant in a stolen crown… it was unthinkably awful.

Arthur almost told Gwen to run rather than be captured if the battle turned against them, but he knew she would not listen. She would never leave Morgana or her brother. Just as he would never abandon Camelot while there was breath left in his body.

Eventually, there was nothing left to do. Gwen gave Arthur a kiss on the cheek and turned him gently towards the door. With one final squeeze of her hand, he left the armoury and went blinking into the bright sunlight, sword in hand.

 

 

 

 

It was the calm before the storm. Arthur always found the silence before a battle oddly comforting. The preparations had been made, the army was in position, the weapons were at hand. There was nothing left to do now but commence the fight.

That was not to say he wasn’t afraid. Not for himself so much but for Camelot, for the future of her people if he should fail today.

And for Merlin, always Merlin.

Beside him Uther shifted a little, adjusting his breastplate. He looked up to the battlements and Arthur followed his gaze.

He could see Morgana in the distance, chainmail glinting in the sun. She was flanked by two longbowmen, and an arbalestier in front. On the opposite battlement stood Morgause, in similar construction. Kara was a little way along, and Aglain and Osgar beyond her, two sorcerer allies of Morgause’s. They were all surrounded by archers. Only the most skilled had been selected, in the hopes of picking off much of the army before the castle was breached. The sorcerers were far away, but Morgause had performed a complicated spell to amplify their voices, as well as Uther and Arthur’s, for each other’s ears only. They would be able to pass orders and information back and forth with ease and none but them would hear it.

Down on the ground, the knights were in formation. Arthur had deputised Elyan to be his first knight in Leon’s absence, to lead the others if he or Uther were injured. He was confident that any one of his knights would continue the fight if he should be cut down.

The rest of the army were waiting in formation. Equipment had run a little thin for the new recruits it had been necessary to take on, but for the most part they were at least partially armoured. He knew he had Gwen’s tireless work to thank for much of that.

He spotted Gwen towards the rear, face half hidden by her helmet. It would be hard to tell it was her without looking closely, which he supposed was the idea. She seemed to be adjusting the mail of a young man next to her, one who looked no more than fifteen years old.

Gods. Arthur’s chest tightened. So much was at stake. By the end of the day, so many would be dead, however young or old. Regardless of what they had done in life or who they had loved or what they were leaving behind.

This was what it meant to be a ruler. Arthur faced forwards again, straightening his spine. He could only fight as hard as he was able, to do his very best for the people who relied upon him.

He unsheathed his sword to check it once more, sheathing it again as Elyan approached.

“We have laid the skins over the gates, sire,” Elyan said. Arthur nodded. He already knew that Enmyria had great expertise with fire and he wanted to give her as little opportunity as possible. Wet animal skins had been laid on any exposed timber to make it less flammable. There was nothing they could do about fireballs shooting over the walls, but at least Morgause and Kara might be able to return them in kind.

“They are visible in the distance,” Elyan added softly. “Perhaps only ten minutes away.”

Arthur looked to Uther, who turned to the assembled troops.

“The time of battle is upon us,” Uther said, with no preamble. “I know some of you may be afraid, though you do not show it.

You will have heard their army is strong. You will have heard they have sorcerers beyond compare. You will have heard that they command a mighty dragon. All this is true.

But, let me tell what else is true. We possess the greatest army in all of Albion. There is no land in the Five Kingdoms that can compete with the skill of our swordsmen, the precision of our archers, the bravery of our knights. Our citadel is fortified and our defences are peerless. We have the most powerful and valiant sorcerers this isle has ever seen.

The druids have called the last few years our ‘flowering’. The townsfolk have called it our ‘rebirth’. I will give it a new name now. This is the Golden Age of Camelot and you are its chosen people. We will prevail today not only because of our strength and skill, but because right is on our side. You are the army of Camelot. The enemy can hold no fear for you. We will emerge the winners and we will claim our victory!”

“Victory!” the courtyard roared with one voice. Arthur raised his fist in agreement, pride swelling in his chest.

He was ready.

Three minutes later, the battle began. The first attack was as sudden as it was unexpected. A great wall of fire rose above the battlements, poised to come raining down on them.

Arthur quailed in spite of himself, but Morgause didn’t falter.

“An illusion!” she cried out, voice strong and clear, and shot a beam of light forward. The fire dissipated into thin air, leaving only the faintest shimmer behind.

Uther needed no further encouragement.

“Now!” he bellowed and the archers let loose their first arrows, raining down on the troops beyond the castle.

All hell broke loose. Arthur heard a great roar beyond the walls and the enemy began to return fire.

Their aim was true, and several of Camelot’s archers fell from the battlements immediately. Seconds later the enemy arrows began to bounce away in mid-air and Arthur looked up to see Morgana and Kara casting a shield over their soldiers, protecting them from harm.

The back and forth of arrows continued for quite some time. Arthur kept his focus on the ground level. Soon, a low noise sounded and the wall nearest Arthur shook a little.

“Mangonel,” Aglain shouted down. It was as Uther had predicted in the council meeting. They were using a mangonel to catapult rocks at the walls. The stone was sturdy enough to buy the citadel some time, but Arthur knew they would break through eventually.

There were no signs of ladders at the tops of the wall as yet. It seemed Cenred would not try an escalade, possibly deeming it more trouble to try to go over the castle walls when he could simply break through them.

This suspicion seemed to be confirmed when Arthur heard the unmistakeable sound of a battering ram at the gate.

“The ram!” he shouted up and it was Kara who answered, sounding frustrated.

“It’s in a penthouse.”

Arthur cursed. A penthouse meant the ram was covered and the men wielding it concealed from attack. He wouldn’t be surprised if it had been spelled to be impervious too but he left it to Kara to find out.

The gates were bending inwards in almost no time at all. The ram must have been strengthened by magic.

Arthur steeled himself.

The gates burst open.

For a moment all he saw was the pointed roof of the penthouse before it was pushed to one side and the horde came forth.

Arthur didn’t have time to think. He stepped forward, sword hefted in his hand.

“Fire!”

The first round of bolts was let loose from the springalds, taking down the front row of invaders. They were hamstrung by the thin space the ram had made, filtering through in twos and threes, ripe to be picked off.

Elena and Gwaine were already at the gate, slicing down the fighters as they came through. Then, an almighty creaking noise sounded and Arthur shouted for them to get back.

Seconds later the gate exploded, a huge hole left in its wake. Arthur saw Tauren standing behind it, arm outstretched.

A bolt of lightning cracked out of the sky and Tauren jumped aside in the nick of time. Arthur didn’t need to look up to know it had been Morgause who cast it.

It had been agreed that they’d leave the sorcerers to the sorcerers, so he turned his attention back to the soldiers spilling in, urging his troops forward to meet them.

They were evenly matched. Camelot had the edge in skill, but Cenred’s mercenaries had a wildness to them that was hard to subdue. In the long run, their disorganisation would cost them, but right now it was a struggle to hold them back.

Cenred was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Merlin and Arthur knew those two things weren’t unconnected.

It wasn’t the time to think of that now.

Arthur gave the order for another round of bolts to be fired and waded into the fray.

His first stroke plunged deep into a man’s chest while his free arm drove into another’s stomach. The second man turned to face him and Arthur dodged the swipe of his sword before slicing through his throat as easily as butter. A warm spray of blood hit him in the face and he wiped the blood from his eyes before striding forth to cut another man down from behind.

This was the easy part. Arthur was trained for this; the back and forth of swords and maces, the duck and feints and sidesteps, the weighty plunge of metal into flesh.

Arthur let the rhythm of the battle flow through him, losing himself in the ritual of fighting. He moved through the enemy like they were made of water, weaving and slashing and stabbing until they melted away.

He didn’t break his concentration until, suddenly, there was no one left in front of him. The enemy army had pulled back, to just beyond the castle walls. He looked up to see Tauren and Morgause throwing spells at each other on the battlements and Morgana and Kara battling Myror on the other side.

If it was a retreat, then surely, the sorcerers would go too. Arthur looked ahead to make sure no ambush was coming, acutely aware that Enmyria was nowhere to be seen. He took a moment to scan his troops.

Elena was bleeding heavily from the arm and Gwaine looked half dazed, leaning against Elyan for support. All were dirty, sweat streaked, spattered in blood. A number of soldiers lay dead on the ground, though not as great a number as the enemy bodies. On the ground by the east battlements, he saw Osgar’s crumpled body, and glanced to the parapets where he’d been stationed. Daegal was hurrying to his side, but Arthur could see that it was already too late.

Arthur’s eyes locked onto his father’s for a moment. He turned to face the ruined gates again. That brief look had told him they were in agreement. This wasn’t a retreat. This was the moment of reckoning.

He heard it before he saw it. The unmistakable flap of dragon’s wings.

Heart in his mouth, Arthur looked to the sky.

Merlin was soaring towards the citadel, Cenred on his back.

He was harnessed and there was a bit in his mouth, attached to reins so Cenred could steer his head. The harness had been beset with short blades on either side, to increase the lethality of every swoop. As they flew closer, Arthur saw what he had no cause to notice on the day he was captured: the raised white flesh on the dragon’s side, where the brand was burnt in.

It was as if time slowed and Arthur had the chance to take in every detail.

He looked beyond the span of Merlin’s wings, the awesome length of his body, and saw how pronounced his ribs were, how emaciated his frame.

He looked beyond the gape of Merlin’s maw, how sharp his teeth and claws were, and saw how closely the harness and bit cut in, the skin pulled tight around them.

He looked beyond the iridescent gleam of Merlin’s hide, the luminous blue black shine, and saw the patches where the scales were sloughed away, rough and bare.

He looked beyond the dragon and saw the man beneath.

“Uther Pendragon!”

Cenred’s voice rang out across the citadel, loud and clear.

“I give you one chance to surrender! Lay down your arms and I will spare the lives of your people! Continue to fight and I will burn them where they stand!”

When Arthur looked around him, he saw the fear on each and every face. It was one thing to prepare to fight a dragon, and quite another to see it in the flesh. His army were warriors, they were brave, they were steadfast. But they were only men. They were afraid of what they saw.

Cenred pulled Merlin up short some thirty yards away, making him hover high in the air. Even from this distance, Arthur could see the triumph on Cenred’s face.

Arthur turned to look at his father, quick enough to catch the tremor in his hand as he raised his sword. But Uther’s voice boomed out strong and steady:

“We will never surrender. And you will not defeat us. For the love of Camelot!”

The last was said to the men and women around him, who raised a heartfelt cheer in response.

Cenred only laughed.

“Have it your way.”

He tugged on Merlin’s reins, spurring the dragon forward.

“Destroy them!” he said.

Arthur’s heart stood still.

 

 

 

 

The night of Arthur’s escape, Cenred had beaten Merlin himself.

It had never happened before. Aside from the whipping after the Aylwin incident, which Cenred seemed to deem more a courtly sentence than anything else, the king had never laid hands on Merlin in that way. He preferred Tauren or the guards to do his dirty work for him; there was something about brute violence that Cenred seemed to disdain.

He made an exception that night.

After Merlin resolutely refused to go after Arthur in dragon form, curling up on the ground, immune to the blows and threats inflicted on him; Cenred forced him back to human. The sorcerers had arrived at this point, looking a little confused amid the chaos.

“Get after him!” Cenred had shouted and Enmyria had leapt forward, her eyes alert.

“Shall I scan the forest, sire?” she said. “We are close to Camelot.”

“Quickly!”

She shut her eyes and breathed a spell. When she opened them again, she shook her head heavily.

“There’s a patrol,” she said. “Four knights of Camelot and a sorcerer too. He’s about to run straight into them.”

Cenred let out a frustrated scream.

“What use are you?” he shouted, pushing her so hard she fell into the grass.

“Sire,” Myror said, sounding a little alarmed.

“Idiots! Halfwits! Your fucking collar did nothing! How the hell did he get away without me knowing?”

Cenred was literally foaming at the mouth and even Tauren looked unnerved.

“He… he would have been dead in two days anyway,” he said hesitantly and Cenred howled.

“Not before he runs back to Camelot and tells them everything he fucking knows about us! Not before they block off the secret passageway, not before we lose every advantage we managed to gain!”

Both Myror and Tauren looked too terrified to speak but Enmyria stepped forward.

“We have magic,” she said, her voice calm. “We have the battle manoeuvres we’ve spent five years practising. We have an army of skilled and bloodthirsty fighters. And we have a dragon. We will still win this war, sire. Make no mistake about that.”

For a moment it seemed that Enmyria’s words had worked. Cenred took in one deep breath and then another, the manic energy dissipating from his body.

“A dragon,” he said softly. “Oh yes, we have a dragon.”

Then, he turned to Merlin and his eyes were like fire.

Merlin had been lying very still. He knew he should be afraid and yet it was like he couldn’t feel anything at all. His mind was stuck on the same single image: the horror in Arthur’s eyes as he realised what Merlin truly was.

Cenred kicked him so hard Merlin heard his own rib crack.

“Get up,” Cenred demanded, pulling him up by the throat. Merlin wheezed, unable to catch his breath, legs wobbly beneath him. Cenred hauled him to his feet and knocked him straight back down again, with a punch to the face so brutal that Merlin felt the bones in his nose splinter.

“Give me… one good reason… why I shouldn’t… kill you.”

Cenred punctuated each pause with a kick to Merlin’s side.

“Kill me,” Merlin muttered, body curled against the pain. Why not? Why not?

“Kill me,” he said, beginning to laugh a little. “Kill me… kill me… KILL ME!”

Cenred dragged him up again, so they were face to face.

“Don’t tempt me,” he said but there was something unsure in his eyes.

Merlin only laughed harder.

“Kill me, Cenred! All you can do now, isn’t it? You’ve done everything else to me!”

His mouth was full of blood and he spat it into Cenred’s face. It slid down Cenred’s cheek and the sight sent Merlin into fits of hysteria.

“Kill me!” he shouted, letting his head loll back. The sky was spinning up above him and the people all around looked strange, torch light distorting their features.

“Stop it.”

Cenred was shaking him. Merlin went with the motion, feeling his limbs jar and his head rattle, still laughing long and loud.

“Stop it!”

“Sire, I think-”

Merlin’s vision blurred. Arthur was safe now, wasn’t that what Enmyria had said? Arthur was safe. He had done it. He could die now.

He was dropped to the ground, suddenly, and he clawed at the grass, laughing through the pain. His bones were all broken, he thought, and his head was coming off, or maybe his body was falling away?

“Kill me,” he whispered, letting a smile stretch his lips, for he hadn’t the energy to laugh anymore. He turned enough to see the sky and it was spinning even faster now, so fast he could barely see anything at all.

 _When it stops spinning, I’ll be dead,_ he thought. And let his eyes slip closed.

He was tied when he woke up again, flat on his back, his body circled in rope. He couldn’t move his arms or legs more than an inch, but he felt no pain beyond that.

“Doesn’t hurt,” he said out loud and there was movement beyond his eye line.

“Edwin healed you,” Enmyria said, coming into view. There was a purple bruise standing stark on her left eye, and her lip was cut and swollen.

“Your face,” he said, tongue too heavy to form the right words. Enmyria shrugged.

“I failed to complete the boundary spell on the prince’s collar. Cenred was angry.”

“Got off lightly,” Merlin said, and Enmyria cracked a smile.

“You and me both, kid. If he didn’t need us for the battle today we’d both be goners.”

“Today?” Merlin said, his mind still fuzzy.

“You’ve been out for nearly two days. We attack in a few hours.”

Merlin realised that the canopy above him meant that they were in a tent, and also that the light streaming in meant that it was well past dawn.

He tried to crane his neck but he couldn’t see any further than that.

“Can you untie me?”

“Depends. Will you go crazy again?”

Merlin thought for a moment.

“No,” he said.

He couldn’t get back to that place, that reckless wildness he had felt as he dared Cenred to end it all, knowing that he didn’t care one way or the other. He was almost sorry. It had hurt less, there.

He heard an exhale and then Enmyria crouched down beside him, knife in hand. She began sawing at the ropes wrapped around him.

When she was finished, Merlin sat up slowly. Enmyria put the knife down, turning away for a second.

Unthinkingly Merlin grabbed it, plunging it towards his hip, ready to be free of the hated brand once and for all…

The knife jumped away, repelled from his flesh. It clattered to the ground and Enmyria picked it up.

“You know that doesn’t work,” she said evenly.

“I thought perhaps I never tried hard enough before,” Merlin shot back.

Enmyria looked at the knife for a long moment before pocketing it.

“You were foolish to accompany the prince, you know,” she said. “He could have found his own way.”

Merlin was preparing a sharp retort when he paused. Something in what she said didn’t sound quite right. She did not seem angry that Arthur had escaped, only that Merlin had played a part in it…

His brain felt too muddled to fit the pieces together, yet something was slotting into place.

“Enmyria,” he said. “Did you deliberately leave the collar spell unfinished?”

“No.” Enmyria said tonelessly. “I was distracted by the tree fire.”

Merlin thought hard for a minute.

“You set that tree fire,” he said at last.

“Of course I didn’t,” Enmyria said, face completely blank.

“I don’t believe you,” he said, and her eyes flickered for a moment.

Then, there was a noise at the tent door and her composure cracked a little.

“Listen,” she said, her tone was more urgent than Merlin had ever heard it. “An ordinary blade won’t cut through that brand. You need-”

“Enmyria,” Cenred said smoothly, stepping into the tent. “Is the dragon awake?”

“Yes, sire,” she said, rising to her feet, the mask back in place like it had never left.

“Leave us,” Cenred said and Enmyria went, Merlin gazing after her.

Cenred stared down at Merlin with a look that would have once frozen his blood in his veins. Now, Merlin felt nothing.

“If you don’t obey today, do you know what I’m going to do to you?”

His voice was like a shard of glass.

“I’m going to switch you back to human and make you kill every soldier in Camelot, one by one. Make you cast every single spell to maim and torture them, to finally stop their hearts when they beg for death. And, when the battle is won, do you know what my first act as King of Camelot will be?”

Cenred’s eyes were devoid of all humanity.

“I’ll have your whore mother brought from Ealdor and I’ll make you do the same to her.”

Merlin’s insides turned to ice.

“I hope we understand each other. Now, get up. It’s time to get ready.”

Merlin didn’t remember much from that point on. He changed forms and two men roughly fitted him with a harness and bit, both tightened cruelly until they cut into his flesh. He was fed some raw meat, then Cenred muzzled him until it was time to go.

They were the last two to leave, long after the army had gone on ahead. When Cenred mounted him, he pressed his spurs hard into Merlin’s sides.

“Don’t let me down,” was all he said and then they were off.

Camelot looked like Merlin might have imagined it. It glistened in the snow, a shining city set into the landscape. As Merlin drew nearer, he could see Myror fighting a dark haired woman on the battlements and Tauren fighting a blonde. The rest of Cenred’s men had retreated at the first sign of Merlin coming and Camelot’s army was standing almost puzzled in the citadel, waiting to see why the battle had stopped.

Merlin picked Arthur out immediately. Even from a distance, it was like he could sense his presence. The closer he flew, the more aware he became of the tiny shape in the middle of the courtyard, bloodied and sweat soaked and gloriously alive.

Cenred issued his demands and King Uther refused, as they all knew he would. It was almost a formality. Merlin thought he would never understand the element of war that was like a game, as though so-called great men had nothing better to do than amuse themselves with land grabs and usurpings and battles where their people perished by the hundreds.

There was so much he did not understand and so much he wished he had learned.

In another life, perhaps Arthur could have taught him.

The spurs dug into his sides and he was being propelled forward again.

“Destroy them!” Cenred shouted out and his voice was excited, as though victory was close enough to taste.

Merlin looked down and saw the unoccupied sorcerers raise their hands, ready to cast against him. He saw a hundred bows aimed in his direction, and a sea of swords on the ground, poised to cut him down.

He had never wanted this. To be feared was the worst thing in the world. He had only ever wanted to do good.

“Now!”

Cenred pulled sharply at his bit and his mouth was forced open. A huge jet of flame shot out, heat scorching the air, smoke billowing behind.

Someone on the ground screamed, as though they couldn’t help themselves. The scream stopped as suddenly as it had started, because the fire had not been aimed below. It had risen up into the air, carried harmlessly away on the wind.

Merlin braced himself for the sting of the first arrows; for the spells that would penetrate his hide.

Nothing happened. He looked to see the sorcerers were standing in the same position as before, the archers by their side.

They hadn’t been given the order to kill.

He looked down at the courtyard and straight into his prince’s eyes.

 _Arthur_ hadn’t given them the order to kill. Arthur didn’t hate him for what had been revealed. Arthur was still protecting him.

Merlin’s chest suddenly swelled, so full of love and happiness that he felt he might burst. There was hope, at last. The unthinkable had happened. Someone had seen past the weapon to who he was beneath.

Cenred’s spurs dug into his sides.

“I take that to be a warning flame,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “The next one you will aim at the sorcerers on the battlement.”

Merlin looked down into Arthur’s upturned face and memorised every detail. The curve of his lips, the blue of his eyes, the sweep of his hair.

How beautiful it was, to love another human being!

“No,” he said distinctly.

“What?” Cenred growled.

“I won’t do it. I won’t fight for you. I say no.”

“You can’t say no,” Cenred spat, sounding half-deranged.

“I can. I am. I say _no_.”

His heart was full. He didn’t belong to anyone anymore.

“Kill them!” Cenred screamed.

“I will not,” he said simply. “You’ll have to kill me first.”

For a moment Cenred said nothing. The air was still around them, sorcerers and knights frozen below.

“Death would be too easy,” he hissed and plunged his sword into Merlin’s side.

For a moment the world went white. The pain was great, greater than Merlin had ever experienced, and yet that was not all. There was a deeper tingle under his skin, a great rush of feeling spreading through his body, as though all his nerve endings were alive at once.

 _Cenred must have cut too deep,_ he thought _. This must be how it feels to die_.

And yet… his magic.

It felt strange. As it had not felt for years. As it had not felt since the day Merlin received his brand…

Merlin turned his head. The sword was still stuck fast in his side, the flesh white and raised around it, a patch of skin he’d looked at so many times.

Cenred had stabbed through the brand.

_It’s not possible._

The brand repelled knives, swords, sharp sticks. Merlin had tried enough of each over the years. But Enmyria had told him… what had she told him? Merlin shook his head, trying not to let the pain overwhelm him.

_An ordinary blade won’t cut through that brand._

Cenred’s blade wasn’t ordinary because… because…

Because it had been forged in the breath of a dragon. His breath.

He was free.

“I warned you, little starling,” Cenred was saying above him. “I told you what I’d do to you if you disobeyed. Shall we start with Prince Arthur? What’s that spell that boils the blood inside the body? Should that be the one I make you cast on him?”

“No, sire,” Merlin said slowly. “I’m ready to breathe fire now.”

With one sharp movement he threw Cenred up in the air, ducking back to catch the king within his claws. The crowd below gasped and Merlin knew his dragon voice was loud enough for them to hear every word he said. They were watching the impossible with bated breath; the war dragon finally turning on its master.

He held Cenred out in front of him, legs dangling in the air. How small the man seemed now, compared to Merlin’s might.

“Imbecile!” Cenred shouted, his eyes wide with shock. “You know you cannot hurt me.”

“That was before you sliced my brand in two, _Master_ ,” Merlin said.

Cenred’s eyes darted to Merlin’s side and Merlin watched as the colour drained out of Cenred’s face.

“I- I… Tauren! Myror!”

Merlin cast a quick look to the side, but both sorcerers were rooted in place on the battlements, staring in shock. They would not be coming to Cenred’s aid.

He waited until Cenred had reached that conclusion too, watching as the king turned pleading eyes on him.

“Let’s not be too hasty,” Cenred said quickly. “I was- I was wrong to hurt you and I’m sorry.”

“Sorry that you stabbed me today? Or sorry that you beat me two days ago? Or tied me up in the snow? Or whipped me or branded me or kept me in a well for a year?”

Merlin’s voice had become a deep, low rumble, rising above the murmurs of the crowd below. He had not spoken as the dragon for years and it was as though his voice had come back to him with a vengeance.

“For all those things!” Cenred babbled. “I’m sorry for all those things! I only did what I thought was best for you. I wanted you to realise your true potential.”

“I seem to have realised it now,” Merlin said and Cenred cringed in fear.

“Yes. Yes, of course, and you can have whatever you want. I was wrong not to treat you as an equal partner. I’ll give you whatever you ask for. We can keep the prince alive. Keep him as a pet for you, would you like that? And you can be king alongside me, we can share the crown! And… and we can find your mother! Bring her here to be with you!”

Cenred seemed to realise his mistake even as the words left his mouth.

“Don’t ever talk about my mother,” Merlin said, and his voice was a roll of thunder.

Cenred whimpered.

“Please, little starling…”

“My name is Merlin,” Merlin said.

Then he threw Cenred in the air and engulfed him in a jet of flame.

Cenred seemed to take an age to fall. The crowd parted below him, leaving a vast expanse of stone for his body to finally break against.

For a long moment, all was silent. Then Merlin used his claws to slice through the hated harness, tossing it to the ground where Cenred’s army stood.

“Lay down your weapons. Surrender yourselves,” he roared at them.

They needed no more persuasion. Many had already run by the look of it, and the rest dropped their arms in a clatter.

Merlin looked back to the battlements to see Tauren was lying stiff and still. One of Camelot’s sorcerers must have taken the opportunity to finish him off. Myror was nowhere to be seen and Merlin supposed he had pulled off one final disappearing act. He had always been good at them.

Enmyria was long gone, Merlin could sense it. Where she would go, he did not know, but he hoped she would find peace there.

“Merlin!”

Merlin looked to the courtyard again, to see Arthur running forward. His hands were stretched up to the air, as if he expected Merlin to fall from the sky. As if he was ready to catch him.

Merlin reached one claw down to his side, and wrapped it around the hilt of the sword. With one hard tug he pulled it free and threw it to a distant field. Blood began to pour from the wound, warm and thick.

“Goodbye Arthur,” Merlin said, and hoped that it was loud enough to hear, because his voice seemed to be fading now. The adrenaline had left his body and his strength was slowly slipping away. He could hear a faint humming in his ears and it reminded him of his mother’s lullaby all those years ago; a song from far away.

There was a hillside in the distance, Merlin could see it. It was topped with snow and gleaming in the winter sun, a perfect peak of pure white.

It was as good a place as any to die.

Merlin flapped his wings, hoping he had the energy to make it there. To change forms one last time.

He didn’t want to die a dragon, to have his corpse displayed and mounted as a trophy of war.

He wanted to die a human and he wanted the snow to bury his body. He wanted grass to grow over him in the spring and he wanted to be forgotten by the summer.

He wanted to rest, at long last.

 

 

 

 

Arthur was running before Merlin had even finished saying goodbye. His feet flew through the courtyard, pounding against the stone. Voices called after him but Arthur didn’t stop, not even for a second.

There was a horse idling outside the walls, likely one from Cenred’s army. Arthur mounted in an instant, spurring it forward. He was following the movement of Merlin up above as best he could. Arthur could lose him at any moment if Merlin chose to fly faster and yet Merlin didn’t.

Arthur didn’t want to think about why that was. He had seen the sword thrust into Merlin’s side, had seen it pulled out again. The wound was large. Arthur didn’t know if it was fatal. Didn’t dragons have healing powers? Assuming Merlin had the strength to use them.

Assuming he even wanted to.

Gritting his teeth, Arthur urged the horse on. He was riding at full gallop but he wouldn’t be able to keep it up for long. If Merlin didn’t stop soon…

Merlin slowed in the air. He had reached the hillside that Arthur and Morgana used to climb in the summer, its flat ridges perfect for eating a picnic on.

Merlin flew to a crest near the top, wide enough to allow him to land. As soon as his feet touched the hillside, he seemed to vanish.

Arthur cried out loud in shock, before he realised what had happened. Merlin had switched to human again. Arthur could just make out a small figure on the ridge, swaying in place.

Arthur snapped at the horse’s reins. He was perhaps only a mile’s ride away, and he’d always been fast at climbing the hillside…

It still took far too long to reach Merlin. Arthur found a thin cloak in the horse’s saddlebag and he tucked it into his hauberk, thinking that Merlin might need the warmth. It was cold now that the sun was going down but Arthur didn’t feel it. He was sweating and struggling for breath as he climbed the final few yards, wishing he could have at least removed his armour first. His body was sore from the battle and his limbs felt weary but none of that mattered. He was so close…

When he finally swung himself up onto the ridge, his heart skipped a beat. Merlin was lying on his side, eyes closed. He was naked and there was a trail of blood leading up to his body, drops red and vivid in the fallen snow.

Arthur ran to him. He turned him over as gently as he could, stomach churning to see the wound in Merlin’s side. Merlin’s skin was cold and he was still, so very still.

“Please,” Arthur whispered and put his hand to Merlin’s mouth.

He felt the tiniest puff of air against his palm.

“Thank the gods,” Arthur choked out and immediately pulled the cloak from his hauberk. He draped it around Merlin’s body and then tore one long strip off the bottom. He wrapped the cloth as tight as he could around the gash in Merlin’s side.

It wasn’t life threatening. Merlin could recover.

If he chose to.

Merlin’s eyelids fluttered. Arthur took Merlin into his arms and began to rub at his shoulders and chest, trying to get some heat back into him.

“Come on, Merlin,” he murmured. “Wake up for me. Open your eyes.”

Merlin stirred a little and Arthur pulled him closer, trying to enfold his body in warmth.

“That’s it, wake up now, Merlin. I need you to wake up.”

Slowly, Merlin’s eyes blinked open.

“Arthur?” he said and he sounded so confused.

“Yes, I’m here,” Arthur said gently. “You were hurt but you’ll be alright. I’m just getting you warmed up.”

“Leave me,” Merlin said, so quietly Arthur wasn’t sure if he’d heard right. Merlin's eyes closed again.

“Hey now, don’t fall asleep again. Stay with me,” Arthur said, rubbing at Merlin’s arms. “Stay with me, Merlin.”

Merlin eyes opened. He looked up intently at Arthur, as if tracing the lines of his face. And then he smiled, soft and sad.

“Can’t stay. Too tired.”

“You can rest later,” Arthur said, with a hint of desperation. “I promise, Merlin, but not now.”

“Rest now,” Merlin said and then suddenly his face crumpled.

“I’m so tired, Arthur,” he said, and a tear slipped down his cheek. “I’m so, so tired.”

“I know,” Arthur said, clutching him tighter. “I know you are.”

“I miss my mum…”

Arthur hadn’t realised he was crying until a tear dropped down from his face and onto Merlin’s.

“You can see her again. We can find her…”

Merlin didn’t seem to be listening. His eyes were staring up into the sky.

“She wouldn’t recognise me now.”

“Yes, she would,” Arthur said fiercely. “And she would be so proud. You saved us all today, Merlin. Just like you saved me from Cenred, time and time again. You did so good. You _are_ so good.”

He cradled Merlin closer, pressing a kiss into his matted hair.

“I know you’re tired and I know you want to slip away but I’m asking you to hang on. Please hang on, Merlin. Because you’ve survived this long and the hardest part is over, I promise.”

“No place for me…”

“There _is_ a place for you. Back in Ealdor with your mother, or in Camelot, or Mercia, or anywhere you choose.”

He stroked Merlin’s cheek.

“Or- or with me. There’s a place for you with me. If you want it.”

“With you?” Merlin said, and suddenly his eyes were focussed back on Arthur.

“Yes,” Arthur said. “Always.”

Another tear trickled down Merlin’s face.

“It’s so hard,” he mumbled.

“I know it is. But I also know you can do it.”

Merlin didn’t speak for a long time. He was so quiet and still that Arthur was terrified he might drift away at any moment. But he waited, because it needed to be Merlin’s decision. He’d had so little control in his own life, this was something Arthur couldn’t choose for him.

Arthur had almost given up hope when Merlin spoke again.

“Take me home,” he whispered and Arthur could have sobbed in relief.

“Of course,” he said and gathered Merlin into his arms.

 

 

The horse had bolted by the time Arthur made it back down the hill. He didn’t care. He would have carried Merlin for a thousand miles and more.

The sun was just visible on the horizon, the last rays of amber setting Camelot aglow. The citadel looked radiant in the half-light, shining with promise.

Arthur walked towards it, treading carefully through the melting snow.

“What happens now?” Merlin said, his eyes fixed on the way ahead.

Arthur thought for a moment.

“Now… now we rebuild,” he said. “Tend to our injured. Return to our families. Mourn our dead.”

“And what happens for us?” Merlin asked, face tipped up towards Arthur.

“We go back to Camelot,” Arthur said.

Suddenly he could see it all laid out in his mind’s eye, as clear as day.

“First, my sister will hug me."

He quickened his pace, as if to hasten his return to Morgana, to his father and all the ones he loved.

"Then she’ll shout at me for running off like that and then finally she’ll ask to be introduced to you.”

“She’ll be afraid of me…”

“She knows about you already, Merlin,” Arthur said firmly. “And she is not afraid.”

Merlin was silent for a moment, digesting this.

“And then what?” he said at last.

“And then the physician Gaius will want to check us over for injuries. He’ll treat the wound in your side and he’ll scold me for not coming to see him before. Then, once you’ve eaten and drank your fill… he’ll show you the letters from your mother.”

Merlin twisted in Arthur’s arms.

“My mother?”

“He knows her, Merlin," Arthur said gently. "She’s alive and well and she never stopped looking for you. He’ll write to her this very night, and tell her to come at once.”

“My mother…” Merlin whispered, overcome. “I’ll see my mother?”

“Yes. She’ll come as soon as she hears and you’ll never have to be parted from her again.”

Merlin made a soft sound, halfway between disbelief and wonder. Arthur drew Merlin a little nearer to his body, hugging him close.

“But before all that we’ll rest,” Arthur said softly. “When Gaius lets us go, I’ll take you to my chambers. They’ll pour us a bath and we’ll wash the dirt of the battle away. And then…”

Arthur paused, throat tight.

“We can sleep in my bed.”

He looked down to see Merlin staring up at him, his eyes bright.

“If you want to. Side by side, like that night in the snow, only completely different because… we’re safe now. We’re free now.”

Merlin was crying again, but it wasn’t like before. He looked happy, this time. He looked at peace.

“Yes,” he said. “I would like that very much.”

It was another mile to Camelot but Arthur’s feet were sure and he knew the way. He hoisted Merlin a little higher in his arms and headed for home.

 

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so so much for reading! I would love to know what you thought of this fic, so please do drop me a comment if you have the time!
> 
> And of course head on over to Mushroom's glorious [art page](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8192170) to show her all the love :)


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